Preemptive Murder
by Nonny A
Summary: A patient’s relative decides to ensure that Mark doesn’t interfere with his plans for an early inheritance. STORY COMPLETE
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: "Diagnosis Murder" and the characters in it are owned by CBS and Viacom and are merely being borrowed here for recreational, non-profit purposes.

Rating: G

Summary: A patient's relative decides to ensure that Mark doesn't interfere with his plans for an early inheritance.

As always, a special thanks to Mouse for her continued honesty and support. 

PREEMPTIVE MURDER

****

Chapter 1

Mark Sloan was standing at a nurse's station, reviewing patient charts, when he was hailed by his friend and colleague, Dr. Jesse Travis.

"Hey, Mark, I thought you were going home early today," Jesse said, as he approached the older doctor.

"That was before the 'flu hit another one of our attending physicians," Mark replied with rueful humor. 

"Oh boy, who's out now?" Jesse asked.

"Dan Engleton. I've picked up several patients he has in the hospital." Mark flashed a somewhat tired smile. "I'm still hoping to get back home in time to meet Steve for dinner."

"That's right; he's getting back from that seminar today, isn't he?" Jesse glanced at the charts Mark was holding. "From the looks of it, you may not make it until breakfast," he quipped. "You want me to take some of those?"

"Thanks, Jess," Mark said warmly, "but these are mostly the ones I've seen already. I've only got one more patient to look in on." He smiled at his young friend, appreciating his willingness to help out. They were all carrying extra loads this last week or two, due to an unusually virulent strain of 'flu that seemed to be decimating the hospital staff almost as much as it was the community at large. But Jesse knew that Steve had been away at a criminology seminar, and he knew how much Mark was looking forward to having a chance to spend a relaxed evening with his son before Steve was officially back on duty at the precinct and subject to the ever-present demands of last-minute cases or backed-up paperwork requirements that so frequently scuttled any plans they might have. 

"Okay. Well, say hi to Steve for me and tell him that he might as well enjoy his last free night, because he's going to be covering Bob's for me for the next couple of evenings!" 

Mark laughed as Jesse continued down the hall to finish off his shift, which would undoubtedly last for several more hours. Handing the bulk of the patient files he had been reviewing to a nurse, he picked up the remaining one and headed off to see his last patient of the day, an 85-year-old woman who had been admitted a few days previously for a severe case of the 'flu with respiratory complications. 

Entering the patient's room, Mark found two people there before him: a young nurse in her early twenties, and a male visitor who appeared to be in his late 30s or early 40s. Both looked around as he approached the bed. Mark addressed the man.

"Hello, I'm Dr. Mark Sloan," he introduced himself. "I'm here to see Mrs. Gallegher."

The man looked slightly nonplussed, as he acknowledged the greeting.   
  
"I'm Michael Garretson, her nephew," he said. "I thought Dr. Engleton was my aunt's doctor."

"I'm afraid Dr. Engleton has been hit by this 'flu that's going around," Mark explained easily. "I'm sure he'll be back in a few days, but in the meantime, I'm helping out with some of his patients."

Garretson accepted the explanation with apparent equanimity, expressing polite wishes for Dr. Engleton's recovery and helping to answer Mark's questions as he reviewed the information in the patient's chart. 

Mark spent a few moments examining Mrs. Gallegher, who was groggy and not very alert. Exercising the easy charm that served him so well, especially with elderly female patients, Mark succeeded in getting her to talk, and even coaxed a smile out of her. When he felt he had obtained all the necessary information, he flashed her a warm smile, and told her that he'd be back to see her again the next day. As he moved toward the door, he signaled the young nurse, who had remained in the room, to come with him. Mr. Garretson, who had been watching the doctor's interactions with his aunt, moved quietly to follow them to the door.

"Is there anything wrong, Dr. Sloan?" he asked. "I know she's not been doing too well."

"Well, she doesn't seem to be responding to the current treatment," Mark replied quietly. "But there are still a few things we can check out yet. There's no need to get too upset just yet."

"Good," Garretson replied. "I know she's getting up there, and she's always been rather frail and sickly, but I hate to see anything happen to her. She's such a dear old thing."

"Well, we'll do our best to get her back on her feet," Mark said soothingly. 

"I'm sure you will. Thank you, Doctor." The man looked over at the young nurse. "And thank you, Nurse, for your care of my aunt. I know she appreciates it. I'm just going to grab a quick bite to eat, but I'll be back in a little while." The man smiled at them both, and walked away.

As they watched him disappear down the corridor, Mark turned to the nurse beside him.

"Caitlyn, have you been taking care of Mrs. Gallegher since she was admitted?" he asked.

"Yes," replied the nurse, looking surprised and slightly nervous. "Why? Is something wrong?"

"I was just wondering – did Dr. Engleton mention anything to you about Mrs. Gallegher having a cardiac condition?" Mark asked.

"No," she replied. "Is there something on the chart?"

"No, there isn't," Mark said with a thoughtful frown. "But her heart rate seems to be surprisingly slow since she's been admitted."

"I think Dr. Engleton said something about the 'flu putting a strain on her system," volunteered the nurse diffidently. 

"Could be," Mark mused. "I wouldn't have thought the effect would be that pronounced though, unless she has some pre-existing heart condition." He shook off his slight preoccupation and smiled at the young woman. "Well, we'll just keep a close eye on things and make sure we cover all the bases." 

The nurse stood in the hallway for a moment, as Mark disappeared down the hall. When he was out of sight, she headed for the coffee shop on the ground floor. Once there, she scanned the room, checking out the few patrons. She quickly picked out Michael Garretson and moved over to his table. 

"Miss Rogers!" he exclaimed as she approached him. He cast a quick glance around the room. "How nice to see you; are you taking a break here too?"

Casting her own automatic glance around, she sat down at the table next to him and said in a quiet voice, "Michael, we need to talk."

Lowering his own voice to be barely audible, he replied briefly, "We agreed that it was best not to be seen together here."

"There are no hospital personnel here now – nobody who knows either of us. And we have a problem. I have to talk to you." Her voice was urgent and insistent. 

Garretson raised an eyebrow, but, after another searching glance around the room, merely said in a normal tone, "Won't you join me for a cup of coffee then? It's the least I can do after you've been so kind to my aunt." He signaled for the waitress, as Caitlyn settled nervously into the chair. They made polite, open small talk while the order was taken and delivered.

Once the waitress had served the coffee, Garretson looked closely at his companion and asked quietly, "Okay, now what's the problem that's so critical that it couldn't wait?"

"We can't go through with this," Caitlyn replied nervously. "Not now."

"Why not? Look, everything's been going great. Aunt Camille has been going steadily downhill, with no symptoms that aren't perfectly compatible with her age and condition. Another day or two, and it should all be over."

"That was when Dr. Engleton was her doctor. This is Dr. Sloan." She saw him open his mouth to argue, and cut him off. "Look, you don't understand. Dr. Sloan is different. He notices things. He's got a reputation around here for practically being able to _smell_ when things aren't right."

"Well, reputations can be exaggerated, you know," Garretson responded soothingly. "And we've looked into this carefully. Even if he does do a few extra tests, potassium won't show up unless you're specifically looking for it; and there's no reason why he should suspect it in this case. It'll just be a case of an old woman whose heart gave out during a particularly nasty bout of the 'flu."

Caitlyn remained unconvinced. "I don't know, Michael. Dr. Sloan is a consultant for the police department; he solves murders and everything." That caused Garretson to look thoughtful. He surveyed the young nurse's face, realizing that she was definitely on edge about this. It wouldn't do to have her come apart now and undo all his careful planning. His first priority was to get her reassured and calmed down; then he could decide what to do about this new doctor she was so concerned about.

"Look, Caitlyn, it'll be all right; I promise. Besides, we've gone too far to back out now. Remember, this is going to be a great thing for us. Poor Aunt Camille – she's been sick and miserable for so long now; it's really a blessing for her to have a quick, peaceful end. And then you and I will be together – no more sneaking around waiting for me to have the money to afford the life we've dreamed of. We'll work something out that'll keep Dr. Sloan from getting suspicious; trust me." 

He continued to murmur assurances as they left the coffee shop, and once outside, he drew her into a quiet corner and pulled her close to him. She responded eagerly to the embrace, melting into his arms, her doubts dissipating as she lost herself in the dream of a future with this man she adored. The interlude was all too brief, however, as Garretson released her with a murmured reminder of the risks of them being spotted together. She understood that. The beauty of his plan lay in the fact that he had no opportunity to administer the daily doses of potassium that would shortly result in fatal cardiac failure, and she, as far as anyone knew, had no motive. That was why they had to be so careful to hide their relationship – for her protection. As long as no one knew that she was in love with Camille Gallegher's nephew and heir, there would be no reason to suspect her, should any question arise in connection with the death. No doubts arose in her mind as to any other possible motivation for her lover's actions. His aunt's death would be a merciful release for an ailing and unhappy old woman and the means to provide for their blissful future together. She believed in him passionately; she belonged to him, body and soul. She reluctantly left the haven of his arms to return to her duties, comforted by his presence and assurances.

Michael Garretson watched her leave, mulling over what she had told him. It was unfortunate that Dr. Engleton had succumbed to the same illness that had provided the opportunity to speed up his receipt of his inheritance. Dr. Engleton was young and inexperienced, and was unlikely to question the downward slide of an old woman whose heart had given out under the strain of a severe bout of 'flu. This Dr. Sloan, from the sounds of it, was an entirely different story. Obviously, if he had been involved with murder investigations for years, he was much more likely to notice any little discrepancies in symptoms that might result from their additions to his aunt's IV. He decided that it might, in fact, be wise to take steps to ensure that Dr. Sloan did not present a problem to the smooth completion of his plan. And the sooner he took care of that situation, the better.

Mark entered the beach house conscious of a feeling of satisfaction that he had still managed to get home well before Steve was expected back. He puttered around, tidying up and getting himself organized, taking advantage of the extra time to do a few of the things that he had neglected over the past few hectic days. Much as he enjoyed his work, and had no desire to contemplate the possibility of retirement just yet, he had to confess that, at his age, these extended periods of extra-long shifts with extra-heavy patient loads tended to catch up with him sooner than they used to. 

Once he had the house straightened to his satisfaction, he sat down at his desk to attend to some paperwork he had brought home. After a while, however, his attention wandered to the crossword puzzle he had put aside a few days earlier, and he found himself immersed in it. Finding that he was having trouble concentrating even on that normally relaxing diversion, he concluded that what he really needed was to get outside. Removing his reading glasses, he rose, stretched, and wandered toward the deck, hoping that some fresh air would wake him up a bit. 

As he approached the sliding glass doors, he admired the glow of the sunset that was just starting to send wisps of rose across the blue of the sky. He loved the peacefulness of the beach at sunset; a nice relaxing lounge on the deck enjoying the view would make a perfect start to a pleasant evening spent with his son. Just as he reached for the handle of the door, the serenity of the evening was shattered by a series of shots that sprayed a deadly rain of broken glass and bullets directly at him.


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

Steve Sloan turned off the highway onto the streets of Malibu with a feeling of relief. He was looking forward to getting home and spending the evening relaxing. The beach was always quiet at this time of the day, with the sunlight fading into shadows as the sunbathers and surfers headed in for dinner. As he turned onto the road where the beach house was located, he was surprised to be passed by a police cruiser with lights flashing. It was not a neighborhood that usually saw much police activity – always excepting the occasional disruptions caused by his own and his father's activities, of course. His mild curiosity changed to sudden alarm as he rounded the curve and realized that the cruiser had come to halt in front of the beach house, where several other police vehicles, including one he recognized as his partner Cheryl's, were already situated. 

__

Oh God, what's Dad gotten into now? Steve thought, as he quickly parked his truck and strode past the officers who were also walking towards the door. Fighting down the anxiety that was assailing him, he entered the house to see a full-scale crime scene unit in action, with the center of the activity obviously located in his father's study. He headed straight for the study, and immediately caught sight of Cheryl standing in the middle of the room, talking to another officer. 

"What's going on here?" he demanded, keeping his voice level with an effort, feeling a sudden tightening in his stomach as he registered the fact that he hadn't seen any sign of his father yet. Cheryl looked over at him, obviously startled by his sudden appearance. 

"Steve! I didn't expect you back so soon," she responded, moving to stand directly in front of him.

The tightness in his stomach ascended into his chest as he took in her slight air of nervousness and realized that his partner was not just surprised by his presence but definitely discomfited by it as well. The constriction in his chest tightened further, suddenly making it more difficult to breathe.

"I made good time getting home," he replied briefly, brushing the matter aside as the triviality it was. "What happened?" he asked again, more insistently. "Where's my father?"

There was a momentary pause, as Cheryl stared somberly at him, searching for the words she needed. "Steve…" The sympathy and concern in her face and voice told their own tale, and Steve felt his heart freeze, even as his brain refused to accept the implications. Before she could continue, he caught a glimpse of movement behind her shoulder, and he shifted slightly to see around her, freezing again into total immobility as he saw an officer rising from having just finished tracing the outline of a body that lay partially obscured by the sofa. All that could be seen of the body was a pair of legs clad in tan trousers, with a pair of dark brown leather loafers on the feet. But it was all Steve needed to see. He had participated in a hunt for those particular loafers only a few short days ago when his father had mislaid them. 

Stiffly, every fiber of his being wanting to scream denial of the significance of what he had seen, Steve moved as if compelled toward the body, gripped by a suffocating dread that swamped his senses. Cheryl's hand grasped his arm suddenly, momentarily halting his entranced motion. "It's pretty messy," she warned softly, her brown eyes holding his stunned blue ones. He paused just long enough to comprehend the message she was sending him, then he turned wordlessly to continue his course across the room. His entire focus was narrowed to that small area by the sofa; he never even noticed the officer nearest the body move away in response to Cheryl's slight jerk of her head, leaving Steve a modicum of privacy.

Approaching the edge of the sofa, Steve encountered a scene straight out of his worst nightmares. Mark lay stretched out on the floor, surrounded by broken glass, his white hair soaked and matted with blood that had run down to cover the side of his face and collect in a pool beneath his head. Anguished grief exploded through him, as Steve dropped heavily to one knee beside his father, one shaking hand reaching out to gently rest on the still chest. _Dad..._ His hand moved in a small, involuntary caress of the immobile form that could no longer feel the love transmitted by the touch. His stunned brain still struggled to reject the reality of the tragedy; his father couldn't be dead – it had to be a nightmare. Desperately he prayed that this somehow wouldn't be real – that he was dreaming, that it was a trick, a mistake, anything. He bowed his head, his eyes squeezed tight against the tears that welled up, struggling to contain the intensity of the grief that was overwhelming him. His brain was numb with shock; random thoughts and emotions flitted briefly through his mind – guilt at not having been here to protect his father, fragments of memories of treasured times together, regrets for the things they would never again get to do.

Gradually, the heat of anger began to bubble up through the cloud of anguish that engulfed him, as a fierce rage against the person who had so violently ended his father's life surged through him. Steve clung to that anger, using it to fight the emotional devastation of his loss, to give himself a focus other than the overwhelming grief. He hadn't been here to save his father, but he could damned well get the person responsible for his murder. He forced himself to look up, gazing around the room, taking in the shattered glass of the sliding doors, the familiar activity of the officers searching for evidence. The transformation of Mark's study, normally a casually comfortable haven for both Sloans, into a violent crime scene invaded by a swarm of officers poking and prying with impersonal detachment among his father's treasured possessions, fueled both his grief and his rage. He turned to his partner, desperately trying to focus.

"Tell me we've got something," he demanded harshly, forcing the words out through the burning constriction in his throat.

"Not much so far," Cheryl admitted reluctantly. "A kid was jogging on the beach and heard the shots and saw an ATV driving away and reported it." She broke off as Amanda entered hastily, wearing the medical examiner's jacket that proclaimed the official nature of her visit, her eyes anxiously scanning the room. Her gaze fastened immediately on Steve, who rose swiftly to intercept her as she approached.

"Steve! I got the call about a body …" her voice bit off abruptly as she saw the body at his feet. "Oh my God – Mark," she breathed in shock. Steve pulled her into a hug, pressing her face into his shoulder, hiding his own in her hair.

"When I heard the address, I was so afraid…" Amanda mumbled against him, her voice shaky with tears. "I figured Mark would call me directly if … All the way out here I was hoping and praying…" She buried her face back into his jacket.

"Amanda, you shouldn't be the one to do this," he said, his own voice still rough with emotion, tightening his arms around her.

She clung to him for a moment, before pulling back and raising a pale, tear-streaked face. "There isn't anybody else," she said, her voice still sounding dazed with shock. "The only other ME on duty is out on another call." She took a deep, shaky breath and pulled herself together, looking up at Steve and rubbing a hand gently up his arm, seeking to give comfort where she knew it was needed most. "Besides," she added, determination hardening her voice despite the tears that still moistened her eyes, "I need to do this. If there's anything to find that will help nail whoever did this, I'm going to make damn sure I find it."

Steve met her eyes, recognizing the same need that he felt – to cope with the grief and loss by focussing on finding the person responsible for Mark's murder. He gave a slight nod of understanding and released her to perform the usual duties of a medical examiner at a murder scene. He watched for a moment as she knelt beside his father's body and reached to begin her exam with hands that shook betrayingly, despite her desperate attempt to maintain some semblance of professional composure. Wrenching his gaze away from the agonizing sight of his much-loved father now transformed into merely 'the body', he turned back to Cheryl, leaving Amanda to deal with her grief and responsibilities in her own way.

Observing the eerie combination of grief and steely determination that marked Steve's countenance, Cheryl wondered how long he could hold it together. She resisted the temptation to suggest that he'd be better off waiting elsewhere until the body was removed, realizing that it would be not only futile, but probably counterproductive as well. It might be better for him, at the moment, to have something constructive to focus on. So she resumed filling him in on the little information they had so far. 

"The jogger saw the ATV driving away across the waterline," she told him, "but he didn't get a good look at the driver. We've got a team out checking to see if any of the neighbors saw anything." She kept a concerned eye on her partner, who not only looked like he had aged at least a decade since his arrival, but who seemed to be having trouble processing the information she gave him. _God, what a welcome home,_ she thought compassionately. 

Steve was aware of Cheryl's sympathy, and appreciated her silent support, but he wasn't able to acknowledge anything yet beyond the need to stay focussed on finding out whatever he could. The normally familiar process of investigation seemed to be shrouded in a haze of unreality; it was almost impossible to accept that they were presiding over the scene of his father's murder. He scanned the room, for once unsure what to do, unable to completely break through the mind-numbing shell of grief and shock that encased him. He wandered over to Mark's desk, and almost lost his precarious control of his emotions, as the sight of his father's reading glasses resting on top of the crossword he had obviously been working on brought an immediate, poignant image of his dad as he often sat there, peering up at his son over the tops of those glasses with the affectionate smile that so often lit those clear blue eyes – an image which sheared through Steve's heart at the moment like an arrow of flame. As he reached out to touch the glasses, the painful vision was shattered by a sudden cry from Amanda.

"Call an ambulance – **_now_**," Amanda snapped out imperatively, "and get the paramedics out here."

Stunned, Steve whirled to see the pathologist straightening up to a kneeling position beside his father, a stethoscope dangling from her neck.

"What..?" Cheryl started to ask, but Amanda overrode the interruption.

"Get me some clean towels and your dad's medical kit," she ordered. "Mark's still alive!"


	3. Chapter 3

****

Chapter 3

Amanda's pronouncement threw both officers into shocked paralysis for an instant; then they whirled to do as she bade them, the urgency of her tone warning them to leave the questions for later. While Cheryl placed the emergency call, Steve dashed to locate the supplies, his thoughts and emotions in turmoil. He returned almost instantly with Mark's medical bag and the requested towels, as Cheryl hung up and approached the sofa where Amanda was gently wiping the blood from Mark's head. 

"How…? We checked – there was no pulse…" Cheryl stuttered in stunned confusion. She cast a glance of desperate apology at Steve as he crouched down beside Amanda, handing her the items she required. 

"It's not your fault," Amanda responded reassuringly, as she tended to Mark. "The pulse is virtually undetectable; I've known even EMTs to make a mistake in this situation. If it weren't for the fact that there was some fresh oozing when I cleared away the blood so I could see the wound…" She broke off, reluctant to pursue that thought. 

Steve stared at his friend as she worked, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions whirling through him. Hope, grief, anguish, anxiety – all warred within him, as he struggled to cope with the series of shocks that had hit him in the few short minutes since his return. After the extremity of despair, he was almost afraid to hope again; as impossible as it had seemed that his father could be dead, it now seemed just as impossible that he could survive such a head wound and loss of blood. His heart in his throat, he forced out the question that he wasn't even sure he wanted to have answered.

"What are his chances?" he asked, his voice little more than a croak.

Amanda flashed him a brief look, not wanting to lie to him, but not wanting him to give up either. "I don't know," she admitted. "The bullet skimmed along the top of the skull, under the scalp, but it didn't actually penetrate the cranium. But there was massive blood loss – which is why the pulse and respiration are so faint. What we have to do now is try to minimize the degree of shock before we can get him to the hospital." She looked up at Steve, seeing the open anguish and anxiety in his face, trying to project a more positive attitude than she was feeling. She was painfully aware that, until the paramedics arrived with an IV setup, there was little they could do to help Mark. But at least that little would hopefully keep Steve from feeling quite so helpless.

"Get me a couple of pillows and a blanket," she instructed. "We can raise his feet and keep him warm. Once the paramedics get here, we'll get an IV started right away and get him into the hospital."

Before she had even finished speaking, Steve had moved swiftly to the couch and returned with two of the cushions and a throw. Under Amanda's direction, he carefully placed the cushions under his father's legs, while she gently tucked the blanket around Mark in an attempt to keep him warm. The chilly feel to his skin, while fortunately not the ultimate chill of death, was still a warning sign of the shock that could yet prove fatal.

It was a tense wait for the arrival of the paramedics. Cheryl returned to overseeing the course of the investigation, but Steve was unable to tear himself away from his father's side, possessed by an irrational combination of fears and urges. He was afraid that his father would slip away from him if he left, and simultaneously determined to be to be at Mark's side if the worst should happen. He hadn't spent all his life among doctors without learning some basic medical facts, and he knew how dangerous hemorraghic shock was to anyone, let alone a man of his father's years. It was amazing that the older man had survived at all; he had only to look at the strain and anxiety in Amanda's face to know that, despite her attempts to appear positive, she was not optimistic about Mark's chances. He crouched beside his father, keeping a hand on his arm as if he could physically anchor him to this world with the touch, desperately willing him to cling to life.

It seemed an eternity before the paramedics arrived with the ambulance, although it was probably no more than 10 minutes. There was a brief flurry of activity as Amanda oversaw the process of starting a wide-open IV and loading Mark onto the stretcher. It took a huge effort for Steve to hold himself back from following the stretcher into the ambulance; there wasn't room for both him and Amanda, and he knew that, if a crisis arose, Amanda would certainly be of more use than he would in saving his father's life. But he still felt an almost physical wrench at the separation, as the EMTs closed the doors to the ambulance and prepared to depart. He stared at the ambulance as it started to pull away, but was jerked out of his paralysis by a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw the compassionate face of his partner.

"Come on, Steve. They've got everything under control here; I'll give you a lift to the hospital."

Steve pulled himself together, and nodded, following Cheryl to her car with a brief word of thanks. 

They followed the ambulance to the hospital, and Steve was out of the car and standing by the doors as they unloaded the stretcher and rushed Mark into the ER, where Jesse, who had been alerted by a phone call from Amanda, was waiting. Steve stayed glued to the stretcher until they reached the doors of the trauma room, where he was once again forced to stay behind. He moved to the window, but was unable to see much through the partially closed blinds. Defeated in his attempts to stay physically connected to his father in some way, he leaned against the wall and closed his eyes briefly. There was nothing he could do now but put his trust in his friends and pray. Jesse and Amanda would do everything possible to save his father; he knew that. He knew that Mark considered Jesse to be one of the best ER doctors in LA, and had certainly entrusted him with the care of his own son on several occasions when Steve's life had hung in the balance. But he also knew that there were times when there was nothing even the best could do to save someone. He hoped more fervently than he had ever hoped for anything before that this wouldn't be one of those times. 

He had no idea how long he stood there waiting before Amanda came out to talk to him. Cheryl had left for the police station to start pulling the files on the cases that Mark had been involved in that might have triggered an attempt at revenge, leaving him alone with his thoughts and fears. He found himself remembering something his father had told him about a story from the Spanish Inquisition in which the worst torment an inquisitor had inflicted on a prisoner was allowing him hope. He suddenly had a much better sense of just how big a torment hope could be. After the dark despair of believing his dad was dead, to be teased with a hope that Mark would survive, only to have that hope ultimately snatched away, would render the agony of loss even more devastating. He was just trying to convince himself that the fact that they were still in there at least meant that his father was still alive, when Amanda came out. He moved to meet her, anxiously scanning her face, noting immediately that her expression was still grave and concerned.

"They're getting him stabilized," Amanda told him, getting straight to the point. She took him gently by the arm and steered him back over to the wall, out of the way of the trauma room doors. "It's important to get as much blood and fluid into him as possible to get his blood pressure back up and make sure his condition is stable before they can operate." She paused for a moment, knowing that he was watching her closely, waiting for more details, for some indication of how things were likely to turn out. She wished she had more positive information for him, but the truth was that the situation was still critical. Shock put a severe strain on a person's system and could severely weaken the heart, especially in the elderly. And as much as they all had a hard time thinking of him that way, Mark's age definitely qualified him as elderly. Even if he survived the stress of the shock itself, there was still a real concern that his heart might have been too weakened to withstand the further stress of the surgery to remove the bullet. But there was nothing she could do to help that situation. Right now she was concerned with minimizing the emotional stress that Mark's son was suffering; although she knew there wasn't much she could do to alleviate that either.

"Come on, Steve, let's go wait in the lounge. Jesse'll come and get us as soon as there's something new to report."

Steve hesitated, glancing toward the trauma room, reluctant to move any further from his father than he had to. He recognized that that was irrational; the lounge was only down the hall, and he knew that Jesse would send for him if … He deliberately broke off the thought, refusing to put it into words even in his own mind, as if verbalizing the possibility might increase its probability of becoming reality. Letting out a breath, he nodded, and followed Amanda to the doctor's lounge. 

The pathologist ushered her friend over to the couch and poured him a cup of coffee. She watched him sit there, staring at the cup, holding it mindlessly, as if he had already forgotten its existence. She briefly considered offering to get him something to eat, but knew that he'd only refuse. She reflected ironically that she was getting uncomfortably familiar with this role – she had been through it more than once with Mark when Steve was the one whose survival was in question, and she was well aware of the fact that a hot liquid could get past an anxiety-tightened throat much more easily than solid food.

"He's hanging in there, Steve," she assured her friend, wanting to offer some hope and comfort. "He's already beaten the odds by surviving this far; we'll just have to have faith that he can make it the rest of the way." 

"He'd better," he replied, his mouth twisting slightly. "I don't think I can take having him die twice in one night." 

The expression of open vulnerability that accompanied that rather heartbreaking admission left Amanda temporarily bereft of speech, and she sat beside her friend, sliding an arm around him in a supportive hug. They sat together in silence, waiting for word on Mark's condition. 

They weren't waiting long before Jesse entered the lounge. Steve's eyes flew to his friend's, a desperate fear reflected in their blue depths. 

"He seems to be stable," Jesse assured him. "We've sent him up for a CT scan and an MRI to get a good look at the position of the bullet and see what we're dealing with. Once we get the results of that and the blood work, and if everything seems reasonably okay, we'll send him up to surgery." 

Steve's eyes remained riveted to his friend's face a moment longer, as he considered the assessment. There seemed no point in asking what would happen if the test results were not 'reasonably okay'; he wasn't really sure he wanted to hear the answer anyway. He nodded wordlessly in acceptance of the information. 

Jesse watched his friend in concern. 

"What happened, anyway?" he asked. "Did you see anything that would give you an idea who did this?"

Steve shook his head. "I wasn't even there," he replied with a trace of bitterness. "I just got home from the seminar and found Cheryl and the CSU there, and Dad …" he broke off, trying to banish the gut-wrenching image of his father's bloodied body. "Apparently he was shot by someone who came up from the beach on an ATV."

Jesse and Amanda exchanged concerned glances. It wasn't hard to recognize that Steve was experiencing an irrational, but understandable sense of guilt for not having been there to protect his father. 

"Steve, there's nothing you could have done," Jesse said sympathetically. "It's not like you can go around standing in front of Mark all the time in case somebody decides to try to kill him. It's not even like he was involved in an investigation right now."

Steve met the young doctor's gaze, his own holding a painful resignation. "I know. It's just …" He let the sentence dangle, knowing that he didn't really need to explain to these friends; they understood without the words. Jesse gripped his shoulder in silent support.

There was little conversation during the wait for Mark to return from the scans. Jesse had been on the verge of going home when he had received the phone call from Amanda, so he didn't have to worry about being called to treat other patients. Amanda had excused herself for long enough to make arrangements to ensure that CJ and Dion were able to stay at her parents' house for the evening; even though she couldn't be part of the medical team treating Mark, she could no more leave than could Jesse. It would feel too much like abandoning both Steve and Mark. The three friends endured the wait as best they could, each seeking to console and derive comfort from the others. It was with great relief that they finally heard Jesse paged back to the ER.

"Okay, I'll let you know what we've found out," Jesse said, as he headed for the door. 

"Jesse." Steve's voice stopped him. The young doctor looked back to see his friend looking at him hesitantly. "Can I see him?" Steve asked quietly.

Jesse hesitated only briefly before replying. It would take him a few minutes to review the results of the scans and blood work; there was no reason that Steve couldn't be with his father while Jesse was going over them. And from the look of open vulnerability in his friend's face, it might well be a way of providing some comfort to him. And if things did go badly… well, the least he could do for both his friends was to allow them a few last moments together. Like Steve, he shoved that thought aside, resolutely determined not to entertain even the possibility of that scenario at the moment.

"Sure," he replied sympathetically. "Come on. It'll be a few minutes before we're ready to bring him up to the OR."

Steve was grateful for his friend's understanding. He knew that his father would be unconscious and unaware of his presence, but he would feel better being with him anyway. And just maybe, somehow, on some level, Mark would feel his son's presence too and draw strength and comfort from it. 

Steve followed Jesse into the treatment room where they had returned Mark, and moved immediately to stand by his father's side, staring down at the still alarmingly white face. They had cleaned most of his head in order to treat his wound, but his hair was still matted in spots with clotted blood. His throat tightening painfully, Steve reached out once again to touch his father – this time taking some comfort in the faint trace of warmth he could feel in the skin. He gently rubbed Mark's arm, needing the contact to assure himself of his father's continued existence, willing him to feel the love and strength he wanted so badly to transmit. 

"Hang in there, Dad," he whispered softly. "You can't give up on me now." His heart twisted as he reflected that his father had always been there for him when he needed him. The thought that he hadn't been there when his father needed him was stabbing him with sharp pinpricks of guilt, even as he recognized the illogic of the reaction. He knew that even if he hadn't been away at the seminar, the likelihood was that he would still have been at work at the time of the shooting. Even had he been at the beach house, there was no reason to suppose that his presence would have prevented the attack. But the corrosive feeling of guilt persisted. He felt so helpless, watching as his father lay here battling for his life, knowing that there was nothing he could do, not even any information or clue he could contribute to identifying the assassin. He had become a cop to help and protect people; his inability to protect the person who was most important to him ate at his heart like acid. He allowed his eyes to wander over his father's face with painful affection, his thoughts transmitting a wordless jumble of pleading, love, and apology. 

Jesse had taken the images and lab reports to a far corner of the room to allow Steve some degree of privacy. Having finished his evaluation, however, he came to stand beside his friend, hating to pull him away, but knowing that it was important to do what had to be done as soon as possible.

"Steve…" He watched his friend's eyes come quickly, questioningly, to meet his. "We need to get him ready for surgery now."

Steve swallowed and forced words out through a suddenly parched throat. "How does it look?" 

"Actually, it looks pretty promising," Jesse told him, as he signaled the nurse to start preparing Mark. "The scans don't show any signs of internal bleeding. There's some swelling, which isn't unexpected after such a head trauma – he's obviously got a nasty concussion – but it looks like the bullet did just skim the surface of the skull without causing any more serious damage inside. We shouldn't have any trouble removing the bullet and patching him back up."

Steve's scrutinized his friend's face, noticing that his demeanor seemed a lot more grave than his words would seem to justify. "So what is the trouble?" he asked.

Not for the first time in their friendship, Jesse wished that he weren't such an open book to his friends. But he owed Steve the truth; it wouldn't be fair to lead him to think that the outcome was more certain than it was.

"Shock puts a major strain on the system," Jesse explained reluctantly. "There's always the danger that his heart may have been weakened. And the blood tests show a decrease in the kidney functions." Seeing the tightening of Steve's mouth and eyes, he hastened to soften the negativity of the report. "It needn't mean a serious problem," he assured his friend. "We'll have to wait and see how he comes through the surgery. Then we can see where we stand." 

__

If he comes through the surgery. The unspoken thought seemed to hang heavily in the air, as Steve watched the surgical team wheel Mark through the doors and down the hall. His eyes followed the retreating form, desperately hoping that he had not just said his final farewell to his father.


	4. Chapter 4

****

Chapter 4

"You know, Steve, soup usually tastes better when it's hot," Amanda prodded with gentle humor. "Or are you finally losing your taste for hospital food?"

Steve looked up from the bowl of lentil soup he had been absently stirring around for the last several minutes. He had allowed Amanda to talk him into grabbing a bite to eat, mostly because he realized that it was well past dinner hour and he knew that she hadn't had an opportunity to eat either. He had tried to encourage her to go home to her boys, but she was as adamant about staying as he was, and he had eventually given up the effort. Truth be told, he was glad of the company, even though he didn't feel much like talking. 

"Sorry, Amanda," he apologized; "I guess I'm just not that hungry."

Warm brown eyes gazed back at him sympathetically. "Well, that's a first," she responded, trying to keep the tone light. Receiving only a wan smile in return, she briefly patted his arm and returned her attention to her own plate. Never exactly enticed by the cafeteria food, she was finding it particularly unpalatable under the current circumstances, but did her best to force it down, hoping to allay the gnawing sensation in her stomach. Although she suspected that the feeling owed as much to stress and anxiety as it did to hunger. 

This was not the first time she had waited with one Sloan while the other was undergoing critical surgery, although it was usually Steve whose survival was so uncertain and Mark who was the one in need of comfort and support. Unfortunately, she reflected, there really wasn't much she, or anyone else, could do to offer comfort under these circumstances. Nothing would comfort either of those two men except the knowledge that the other was out of danger. For that matter, nothing else was likely to be of much comfort to her either. Mark Sloan was one of her dearest friends, and had been so for many years now, and the thought of losing him was a bitter grief to her as well. She valued his friendship, advice, good humor, and unfailing support more than she could express; she had come to love and depend on him as on no one else in her life. And she knew that the distress she felt was insignificant compared to the pain Steve must be enduring.

Steve was, in fact, trying very hard not to contemplate the prospect of life without his father. It was a natural expectation that Mark would some day predecease him; he knew that the alternative was the worst horror that his father could envision, and would not wish that on him. But in the natural order of things, his father should live for many years yet, finally – after a very long and healthy old age, he thought firmly – succumbing to a peaceful end. It seemed ironic to him that everyone worried so much about the dangers his police career posed to himself, while frequently forgetting that Mark, too, exposed himself to the risks inherent in solving crimes and catching murderers. It wasn't as if Mark had never been endangered before. Steve had come distressingly close to losing his father more than once, although never, he thought, quite this close. And never before had he suffered the grief of believing his father to be truly dead. Perhaps the closest he had come had been the time the county medical examiner had turned out to be a killer and had tried to murder Mark to prevent him from exposing the proof of his guilt. Steve remembered the shock and terror of bursting into the autopsy room of the county morgue to find Amanda and Jesse performing CPR on his father, the bitter anguish of fearing that he had arrived too late to save his father's life. Fortunately, that agony had been short-lived; his friends had succeeded in reviving Mark almost immediately after Steve's arrival. He prayed fervently that they would succeed in saving him this time as well.

Steve was lost in his thoughts and didn't even notice Jesse's arrival until he saw Amanda stiffen to attention and felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up quickly, searching the young doctor's face for information. His friend flashed him a tired smile.

"He came through the surgery with no problem," Jesse said, his tone reassuring. "We'll be keeping him on the monitors through the night to be safe, and we'll have to keep a sharp eye on those kidney functions, but his blood pressure's back up and his vitals are stable. It looks like he's going to be just fine."

Relief washed through Steve with the force of a tidal wave, leaving him momentarily limp and bereft of speech. Jesse watched him in sympathetic understanding, as Amanda wrapped him in a comforting hug, tears of joy and relief in her face.

"You know, you ought to go out and buy your dad a lottery ticket," Jesse quipped, trying to lighten the moment, "because right now Mark has to qualify as one of the luckiest people on the planet."

Steve brought his gaze up to meet his friend's, moisture blurring the usually clear blue eyes. The corner of his mouth lifted in a responsive half-smile as he emitted a short breath of shaky laughter. 

"Right now I think the bulk of the luck lies in the friends we have," he replied. His gaze flitted to meet each doctor's eyes. "Thank you. Both of you," he uttered with quiet gratitude.

"Hey, we can't lose Mark," Jesse teased. "Things would be too boring and routine around here without him!"

Amanda aimed a playful swat at the younger doctor, who easily avoided it. The release of the extreme tension that they had all been feeling was leaving them a bit punchy. Steve heaved a deep breath, feeling like the proverbial ten-ton weight had been lifted from his chest, allowing him to breathe freely for the first time in hours. 

"Why don't you go on home now, Steve," Amanda suggested. "I'm sure Mark'll be out until morning."

"You go ahead, Amanda," the detective responded. "I'd like to stick around and see him."

"He won't be out of Recovery for a while yet," Jesse told him. "And Amanda's right; between the strain on his system, the anesthesia, and the concussion, there's basically no chance Mark'll wake up before morning. You might as well go home and get a good night's rest."

Steve's mouth twisted. "My home's a crime scene right now," he reminded his friends grimly. "I doubt that I'd get much rest there anyway."

His friends exchanged startled glances of concern, having temporarily forgotten that little detail in their single-minded focus on Mark's survival. 

"You can stay at my place," Jesse volunteered. 

"Thanks, Jess, but I think I'll check in with Cheryl and see what they've found so far," Steve replied. "Then I'd like to sit with Dad for a bit." It didn't matter that he knew Mark wouldn't be conscious, he just needed to be with him. The devastating events of that evening had left his nerves raw and jangled, and they would only be soothed by the physical reassurance of his father's presence.

So it was that, a short time later, Steve was seated by Mark's bedside, staring down at his father, deeply grateful for the knowledge that his dad had not been taken from him yet, and determined to ensure that whoever had tried to kill him would not be granted another opportunity. He remembered the time Sam Rosser had been after his father and Mark had refused Steve's offer of a bodyguard, objecting to "altering his life for one lunatic." Steve had responded then that he didn't plan on altering his own life by becoming an orphan; his resolution to ensure that he did not suddenly acquire that status now was just as strong, and he had arranged, during his conversation with Cheryl, to have a guard stationed at Mark's door at all times, starting immediately. He had all intentions of staying with his father himself this night, but for once he didn't trust himself to be Mark's sole protector. The extreme emotional gyrations of the evening had left him drained and exhausted, and, with his father so vulnerable and so narrowly snatched back from death, he wasn't going to take any chances on his own fatigue possibly inhibiting his ability to recognize or prevent any further danger. 

He realized that it was unlikely that the killer would even know yet that Mark had survived and so was unlikely to try again. But the emotional trauma of being confronted with what he had thought was his father's bloodied corpse had left a dark shadow of fear across his heart; he was still plagued by an irrational insecurity about the possibility of losing the man who meant more to him than anyone else. He stared down at his father, just soaking up the sight of him. Despite the bandage wrapped around his head and the various tubes and monitors attached to him, Mark certainly presented a less frightening sight than he had several hours earlier. The last remnants of blood had been cleaned away, and the face beneath the bandage showed faint traces of color, although he was still pale. Rather than being dismayed by the array of medical equipment, Steve was somewhat comforted by the attachments. He had been around hospitals all his life, and he'd certainly had more personal experience with such equipment than he cared to think about, and he found the presence of the aids at the moment reassuring rather than otherwise. The steady beep of the heart monitor gave him audible confirmation that his father was doing well; the IV was a familiar and non-threatening item, offering further assurance that the appropriate fluids and medications were being received. 

With the comfort of knowing there was an officer on guard outside the door to prevent external threats, and the rhythmic reassurance of the monitors, Steve found himself finally relaxing as he sat watching his father. He reflected with gratitude on the number of times his father had sat with him, not just through the more recent, life-threatening scares of his adulthood, but through the many nighttime terrors and griefs of childhood. Not for the first time, he was devoutly thankful for this father with whom he shared so many close and caring moments – not to mention, he thought with a reminiscent smile, some pretty wild and fun ones as well. Soothed by the memories and the quiet regularity of the beeping monitor, he finally drifted off to sleep. 


	5. Chapter 5

****

Chapter 5

Mark woke slowly, feeling groggy and confused as he struggled to full consciousness, recognizing almost without conscious thought the familiar sounds and smells that identified his location as a hospital. A sense of unease filtered through his still-scrambled thoughts; there was something wrong with the fact that he was lying down instead of standing at the patient's bedside. He finally succeeded in forcing his eyes open, and realized with a minor sense of shock that he was the patient. As his mind started to clear, he noticed the IV inserted in his arm and recognized the fact that the heart monitor that was steadily beeping was connected to leads attached to his own chest. As his gaze wandered somewhat blurrily around the room, he saw a man slouched in the chair beside his bed. He didn't need perfectly clear vision to identify that figure; he would know his son anywhere, under any conditions. Of course, given the fuzzy sense of unreality he was still experiencing, this could all just be a dream.

"Steve?"

The faint rasp of sound that emerged from his throat was enough to jerk his son awake instantly. Straightening immediately, Steve's head swiveled to meet his father's gaze, his face lighting up in a smile of relief.

"Hey there," he responded, leaning over to rub a gentle hand over his father's arm. He saw Mark attempt to moisten dry lips before speaking again, and gave him a reassuring pat, recognizing from his own experience the dryness that followed surgery.

"Hang on, I'll get you some water," he said, and got up to pour a glass from the pitcher on the bedside table. He pressed the button to raise the bed slightly, and held the glass to his father's lips. Mark's hand came up automatically, but Steve didn't relinquish his grasp. "Take it easy," he said, smiling affectionately down at the older man; "let me help you for a change." He saw an answering smile warm the blue eyes that looked up at him, and Mark allowed his arm to drop back to the bed. 

"Thanks." The voice was a little stronger this time, and not so hoarse. 

"How do you feel?" Steve asked.

"My head hurts," Mark replied, considering it. 

"That's not surprising," Steve responded dryly. "Do you remember what happened?"

"Not really." Mark frowned, trying to fish up some memory of being injured. His hand moved up to his head, feeling the bandage there, putting that bit of information together with his blurred vision, general malaise, and apparent memory gap. "I think I have a concussion," he concluded.

"You do," his son confirmed. "You were shot," he added, trying to tamp down the emotions that threatened to rise at the memory.

"In the head?" Mark queried automatically, not doubting Steve's statement, but surprised that he wasn't in worse shape after such an injury. He wondered how much time had passed since the shooting, and how long his son had been sitting in that chair. He tried to scrutinize Steve's face, but his vision was still too blurry to allow him to get a good look at the details of his expression. "How long was I out?"

"Just since last night," Steve replied reassuringly, even as he reflected that it felt more like a week than a mere 14 hours or so since he had come home to find what had seemed like his worst nightmare turned reality. Not wanting his father to pick up on the thought, he flashed Mark a small, wry grin. "Jesse said you were so lucky, we should buy you a lottery ticket."

A pale ghost of Mark's usual impish grin flashed briefly across his face. "So, did you?" he asked.

Steve felt his own grin twist as a sudden rush of love paradoxically stabbed his heart with pain at the thought of how close he had come to never seeing that grin again. He swallowed hard, trying to keep his voice light as he replied, "The gift shop was closed."

Mark's vision might be too fuzzy to identify subtleties of facial expression, but he knew every timbre of his son's voice. 

"Are you alright?" he asked, sudden concern for Steve's well-being flaring as he picked up on the undercurrent of emotion.

Steve reflected that he might have known that, even just having awakened from a head injury, his father would still be able to see right through him.

"You're the one who was shot," he replied. "I'm fine."

Mark tried to focus more clearly on the man before him, searching for any signs of injury. Steve's clothes were rumpled, presumably from an extended stay in the bedside chair, but they were his regular clothes, not a hospital gown. And there were no obvious signs of bruising or physical damage. As for emotional damage… well, Mark had been on the other side of the bed too many times not to have a good idea of what his son had gone through. 

"Come here," Mark said, scrunching over on the bed, wincing as he did so. As Steve hesitated, he lightly patted the mattress for emphasis. "Come on," he coaxed encouragingly, "I'm not up to biting yet."

Steve smiled reluctantly as he complied, easing himself gently down beside his father, trying not to shake the bed to avoid jarring Mark's head.

"I think that's one thing you never did to me," he mused teasingly. "Although I seem to recall you coming close one time when I was five and you were pretending to be a man-eating crocodile." Again, the smile he loved brightened the blue eyes that regarded him with open affection.

"We were having a safari adventure," Mark agreed reminiscently. "I just thought I'd add some verisimilitude." They sat for a moment, enjoying the memory and the closeness. Steve found himself regaining some sense of peace, as the reality that his dad was truly still with him started to sink in emotionally as well as mentally. He met Mark's eyes, knowing that that reaction was precisely what his father had intended. 

"Are you alright?" Mark repeated.

"I'm okay, Dad," Steve replied, his voice level now, feeling the comfort engendered by the light exchange and the physical proximity. "You just had me pretty scared."

"I'm sorry about that," Mark replied with genuine regret. The ghost of the impish grin flashed again briefly. "I didn't do it on purpose."

Steve's reply was interrupted by the arrival of a nurse to check on Mark. Steve moved off to the side while she performed her ministrations. He watched with amusement as she made much of the doctor-turned-patient; he knew Mark was popular with the nursing staff and would undoubtedly receive special attention mixed with affectionate teasing on his role reversal. 

When the nurse finally left, Steve moved back to the side of the bed, noting that his father's eyes had drifted closed again. They blinked back open, however, at the sound of Steve's approach.

"You get some rest, Dad," Steve suggested affectionately. Mark fixed his gaze on his son's face consideringly.

"You should go home and get some rest yourself," he replied, knowing the toll that the long, tense hours of anxiety would have taken. He knew how Steve felt about him, knew that strong streak of protectiveness his son felt for him, and knew that his brush with death would have stirred up an intense array of emotions. He wanted to find out more about exactly what had happened and how his son was coping, but he could feel his mind going foggy in the typical aftereffect of concussion. The best he could do at the moment was to try to ensure that Steve didn't push himself too hard, emotionally or physically, in response to the attempt on his father's life. With a sudden sense of shock, it occurred to him that he still didn't know anything about the attack itself – had it been an attack solely on him, or was his son targeted too? His eyes flew open, wide with alarm, riveting to Steve's face.

Steve responded immediately to the sudden fear he saw cross his father's face.

"Dad? What's wrong?" he asked in concern.

Mark struggled to get his brain to phrase a coherent inquiry.

"What exactly happened? Were you…" he couldn't seem to find a way to phrase the question properly. As he searched for the words he wanted, Steve suddenly realized what he was asking. He felt a bittersweet twist of the heart at the realization that his father's first concern about the shooting itself was whether his son was at risk. He stretched out a reassuring hand to his father's shoulder, gently quieting Mark's sudden agitation.

"It's okay, Dad," he said soothingly. "Everything's under control. I'm not in any danger." His mouth twisted as he considered that he'd feel a lot more comfortable if it had been him that the killer had been after. He could take care of himself; it was his father who was the most vulnerable. He saw Mark's eyes still searching his face, the fear for his son not quite allayed. He sighed, resigning himself to the fact that his father would rest easier if he at least knew the basic facts.

"Somebody took a shot at you in the beach house just before I got home from the seminar," he explained briefly. "We haven't found out who it was yet, but we will." The determination in his voice was clear; that was a point on which he would entertain no doubts. "In the meantime, we're keeping a guard on your room here, so you'll be safe." His father's first concern might have been for his son, but Steve wanted to make sure that Mark felt safe himself as well – whenever he got around to thinking about himself, that is.

"You just relax; everything's going to be fine," Steve asserted.

His worst fear allayed, Mark found himself succumbing again to the grogginess that gripped him. The possibility of a renewed attack on himself was something that he was able to put aside for the moment. He had complete faith in Steve's arrangements for his safety; it was his son's own safety that he was frequently careless of – especially when he felt his father was in danger. 

"So, go on home and get some rest," Mark reiterated.

Steve smiled at him with amused affection.

"You're a stubborn man," he told his father. Mark gave him a sleepy smile in return.

"Runs in the family," he replied, fatigue slightly slurring his speech.

"I'll go home as soon as Jesse comes in," Steve said. "I just want to talk to him for a minute." He saw that Mark was fighting to keep his eyes open, trying to read his son's expression, and repeated his assurance. "I promise, Dad; I'll leave as soon as I talk to Jesse. He should be here any minute now anyway." 

Mark nodded slightly, hearing the sincerity in Steve's voice. Relieved of his remaining concern, he allowed himself to succumb to the seductive darkness of sleep. Steve sat beside him, savoring the relief of knowing for certain now that his father was alive and intact. Despite Jesse's assertion that the MRI and CT scans had shown no significant damage within the skull, Steve had worried about the possible effects such a head injury might have. But their short conversation had been enough to show that Mark was still very much himself. 

When Jesse showed up a few minutes later, Steve derived further reassurance from the doctor's assessment of Mark's condition. While the blood work still indicated some decrease in kidney function, Jesse seemed confident that with proper care, including a restricted diet for a few days, everything would heal. Satisfied that his father was safely on the mend, and would certainly be well taken care of by Jesse, Steve felt that he could now afford to concentrate his attention on finding the person who had tried to kill Mark. Whoever it was, Steve vowed to himself, he or she was going to bitterly regret ever having come anywhere near his father.


	6. Chapter 6

****

Chapter 6

Steve tore down the crime scene tape stretched across the front door and let himself into the beach house. The CSU had finished their inspection of the premises, and the house was now available for rehabitation. As he entered the foyer, however, Steve knew that it was far from ready to be lived in yet. He walked into his father's study, and, despite his knowledge of what he would find, still experienced a physical jolt in his stomach at the sight of the chalk outline of the 'body', the congealed blood still pooled on the floor, the shards of glass scattered around the room. His jaw tightened as he surveyed the scene of his father's 'murder'; even though he knew Mark was going to be fine, the sight still set an echo of grief and horror resonating through him. Resolutely pulling himself together, he determined that his first course of action would be to remove the signs of the violence; he would not let his dad come home to find this violation of his inner sanctum. 

A little over an hour later, he had vacuumed up the glass, washed away the chalk marks and the blood, rolled up the area rug that had absorbed most of the gore, shoving it outside on the deck to await permanent disposal, and tidied up. He made a mental note to himself to get hold of the glaziers to replace the ruined glass of the sliding doors as soon as possible. The room restored to some semblance of its normal state, he headed down to his own apartment to get himself cleaned up and refreshed.

He knew his father had intended for him to get some rest when he had promised to go home – Mark had certainly not realized the state of that home – but Steve had no intention of sleeping until he knew exactly where they stood with the investigation. A shower and shave, a change of clothes, and a cup of coffee cleared the cobwebs formed by an uneasy night in the hospital chair, and he headed out to the precinct, determined to use every resource at his disposal to find out who had tried to kill his father.

Steve entered the police station to be met with sympathetic glances and greetings, and the news that the captain wanted to see him as soon as he got in. He appreciated the concern on the part of several of his fellow officers; he knew that many of them were genuinely fond of his father – not only had they become accustomed to Mark's involvement in cases over the years, but several of them had been treated by the doctor for complaints ranging from common ailments to critical gunshot wounds. He was less thrilled with the immediate summons to his captain's office. 

Trying not to anticipate trouble, Steve knocked on the door to Captain Newman's office. Hearing the call to enter, he drew a breath and walked in.

"Lieutenant. I was sorry to hear about your father," the captain greeted him. "How's he doing?"

"He's got a severe concussion," Steve responded, "but Jesse says he's going to be all right." He appreciated the inquiry, but he doubted that concern for his father's health was the reason for his summons. 

"I'm glad to hear that," Newman replied sincerely. He surveyed his detective appraisingly. There was a certain wary alertness in Steve's posture, but he seemed quite calm and controlled – a fact that greatly relieved the captain. He was well aware of Steve's close relationship with his father and the violence with which he could react if his father was harmed. Departmental policy prohibited detectives from being assigned to cases in which they were emotionally involved, and it was hard to imagine being any more emotionally involved than Steve was in the attempted murder of his father. But Newman also knew that there was no force on earth that could keep Steve out of this investigation; past experience had proven that more than once. He had no desire to have one of his best detectives go rogue on him or throw in his badge. He looked Steve straight in the eye and continued sternly, "Of course, you know that I can't assign you to this case." He watched the detective tense, obviously prepared to do battle.

"Captain, somebody just tried to murder my father! I…"

"You know the rules, Lieutenant," Newman interrupted sharply. "You're too emotionally involved in this case to be the investigating officer. I've assigned the case to Detective Banks." He watched as that bit of information sank in, temporarily giving Steve pause; since Cheryl was Steve's frequent partner, assigning the case to her was as close to giving it to Steve as he could get. Satisfied with Steve's silence, Newman continued smoothly, "Of course, as the person best acquainted with your father's activities and the cases he's worked on, I expect you to cooperate fully in providing Detective Banks with any information she needs."

Steve stared back at the captain, temporarily speechless as he realized that he was being granted unofficial license to work on his father's case. He had been fully prepared to request a leave of absence or vacation time if necessary in order to pursue the case on his own, and had hoped that whoever was assigned the case would be someone who would keep him informed of any official developments and not try to shut him out. He was sincerely grateful for the loophole the captain had provided that would allow him to remain actively involved without technically violating regulations.

"Thank you, sir," he responded briskly. "I'll be sure to cooperate any way I can."

"I'm sure you will," Newman responded dryly. As Steve turned to leave the office, he added, "Oh, and Lieutenant…" Steve looked back at him. "Try not to get carried away by your enthusiasm. I do not intend to field any complaints of police harassment or brutality."

Steve met his eyes. "Understood, sir," he replied quietly.

As soon as he left the captain's office, Steve went to find Cheryl, who was holed up in a small office, sorting through computer printouts and files. She looked up as he entered, greeting him with warm concern.

"How's your dad doing?" she asked, knowing that that was probably the most important factor in determining his own state of mind as well.

"He's okay," Steve replied, his face softening in response. "He was awake and talking this morning, and Jesse says he's going to be fine."

"That's great," Cheryl replied, with obvious sincerity. She cast an appraising eye over her partner, and was pleased to see that, while he certainly showed some signs of fatigue, he was apparently holding up well.

"So, what have you got so far?" Steve asked, as he walked over to peer at the paperwork scattered on the table in front of her.

"Not too much," Cheryl replied. "I've been going over the cases your father's worked on, trying to see if anybody with a grudge has recently been released." She cast a wry look over the multitude of papers covering the table. "It's turning out to be quite a job – he's been involved in more cases than some of the regular detectives around here!"

Steve smiled slightly at that. "Maybe I can help narrow it down a bit," he suggested, pulling a chair from the corner of the room over to sit beside her. 

The two worked together to sort through the cases in which Mark had been involved, looking especially for any instances where the perpetrator had recently been released from prison or had been particularly vindictive or threatening. As they reviewed the possibilities, Steve couldn't help feeling that this wasn't helping much; there didn't even seem to be any likely candidates who had recently been released.

"How about this one?" Cheryl asked, tossing a file across to him. "He made parole about 2 months ago." Steve picked up the folder and scanned it. 

"I doubt it," he replied. "Dad just provided expert testimony in this case; I was the one who nailed him. If he was going to be mad enough to take a run at anybody, it'd be me." 

Cheryl looked up at him, her expression arrested. "Maybe that's what he was doing," she suggested.

Steve looked back at her, startled. "You think I might have been the intended target?" He considered the idea. "I find it difficult to believe he mistook Dad for me," he said. 

"With the sun just going down, maybe the glare off the glass doors obscured his view," Cheryl suggested. 

"If his view was that poor, he wouldn't have shot at all," Steve objected. However, her suggestion had opened up a new line of thought. "But maybe we should consider the possibility that this was an attempt at revenge on me," he said slowly. He saw the question in Cheryl's eyes and explained, "It wouldn't be the first time someone tried to get back at one of us by attacking the other."

Sudden comprehension dawned on Cheryl. It took a twisted mind to devise such a plot, but there was no doubt that the worst pain you could inflict on one Sloan was to harm the other. She remembered the time a man whose son had died on the operating table at Community General had tried to wreak revenge on all those he held responsible by killing, not the doctors and nurses themselves, but their children, wanting them to feel the agony of the same loss that he had experienced. Mark had been the head of the review board on that case, and the man had targeted Steve as one of his victims. Through an accident of circumstances, it had actually been Mark who had been caught in the man's trap, but his intent had been to take his revenge on Mark by killing Steve. Perhaps this was a case where someone was planning revenge on Steve by murdering Mark.

She met her partner's grim look, and found herself fervently hoping that they weren't dealing with that scenario. She knew Steve well enough to know the inevitable pangs of guilt he would suffer if he were the motive behind the attack on his father. 

"It's another possibility," she said levelly. "But there's no reason yet to assume that's the case." She paused for a moment, then suggested, "Maybe we're looking at this wrong. Maybe it wasn't an attempt at revenge at all." 

"You're not suggesting that this was just a random shooting, are you?" Steve asked incredulously.

"No. But maybe it's something more current. Is your dad involved in anything now?"

Steve shook his head. "No, he hasn't been working on anything lately." He paused, suddenly considering. "At least, not that I know of," he temporized. "I haven't had a chance to ask him if he got involved in anything while I was away. Although I'd expect Jesse or Amanda to have mentioned it if he had."

"Maybe they don't know about it yet," suggested his partner.

"Maybe," Steve said doubtfully. "But if Dad gets involved with something, he usually pulls one or both of them in with him to check things out. I'll ask him about it when I go back to the hospital." He looked around at the folders and printouts scattered around the table, suddenly thoroughly frustrated with the absence of any really promising leads. There were too many possibilities, too many unanswered questions. Such a situation was not at all uncommon in the early stages of an investigation, he knew, but this wasn't a 'normal' case. This was his father's life that was in danger, and the painstaking, plodding progress that constituted the usual method of handling cases where there was very little to go on was intolerably slow and inadequate. Someone had tried to kill his father – might even now be planning to try again; the need to do something more active to track down the killer was welling up in Steve like steam in a pressure cooker, threatening to burst forth in an explosive eruption.

"Has anyone checked to see if there's any word on the street about this?" he asked in frustration. "Maybe I should check out some of our usual snitches, see if I can scare up some information about someone planning an attack on either my father or me."

Cheryl regarded him warily, recognizing the frustration and anger boiling just beneath the surface of his self-control. She had a feeling that if Steve hit the streets in his current mood, there was a distinct possibility of him getting himself yanked completely off the case for the use of 'excessive violence'. On the other hand, he obviously needed a break from the paper chase they had been engaged in for the past several hours. If it came to that, she thought, shifting to ease the stiffness that was developing in her neck and back, she could use a bit more active investigating herself. 

"I tell you what," she suggested, coming to a quick decision. "Why don't you go talk to your father and see what he's been up to in the past few days. Maybe that'll give us some pointers in the right direction. In the meantime, I'll go out and see if I can find anybody who might have heard any useful rumors or rumblings about somebody going after either of you."

Steve hesitated for a moment, torn between the desire to get out and shake some information loose from somebody and the urge to check on his father – both to see what light Mark might be able to shed on the situation and to reassure himself that everything was still okay. 

Easily reading the conflicting impulses that were pulling her partner, Cheryl tried to clinch the decision for him. "Go on, Steve. You'll only rough up some poor, ignorant snitch and get yourself pulled off the case all together. Besides, you can do a better job of getting information out of your dad than I can; if he's gotten involved with anything where he's protecting somebody or doing something he technically shouldn't be, you're the only one he'll talk to." 

Steve's face relaxed into an appreciative half-smile at her assessment. "Maybe you're right," he replied. "I'll head over to the hospital and talk to Dad – and to Jesse and Amanda. I still think that if Dad's gotten involved in anything – even something he hasn't told me about – he'll have at least given some indication of it to them."

As he pulled out of the precinct parking lot, Steve gave serious consideration to the possibility of his father having actually gotten involved in something that he hadn't wanted to mention to his son. There was no denying that his father's compassion and desire for justice had been known to involve him in some quixotic escapades that included activities best left unsubjected to official police scrutiny. Most of the time, Steve was more or less aware of these activities (although he frequently refrained from inquiring too closely into the details), but maintained a pretence of official ignorance. He knew Mark did not like to go behind his back on things, but there had been one or two times when his father's actions had been sufficiently illegal that he had felt obliged to protect Steve's position as a cop by keeping him truly in the dark. It was just as well to make sure that this wasn't one of those times. It wouldn't be hard to ascertain; not only was Mark unlikely to withhold information after this attempt on his life, but Steve knew that his father wouldn't lie to him. Mark's usual method of keeping him out of something was to use avoidance or misdirection, either evading questioning or framing an 'answer' that managed to imply something harmless without ever making an untrue statement; if confronted with a direct inquiry once Steve was alerted to the possibility of something going on, Mark always 'came clean'. 

No, there would be no problem with his father deliberately withholding information, Steve knew. There was, however, the possibility that the minor loss of memory that accompanied the concussion might extend to whatever events could have led up to the shooting. Which would mean that Mark might well be unable to tell Steve anything helpful. In which case, he would have to hope that his father had, in fact, discussed anything he might have gotten involved in with their friends. Until he had some of idea of who or what was behind the attempt on his father, it was going to be almost impossible to find the person responsible; and the longer it took them to find him, the greater the odds that he'd try again. After the incredibly close call of the shooting, Steve was haunted by an almost-superstitious fear that a second attempt would be successful; as he headed over to the hospital, he fervently hoped that either his dad or his friends would be able to provide the information he'd need to prevent that catastrophe.


	7. Chapter 7

****

Chapter 7

Amanda entered Mark's room to find the older doctor sitting on the side of the bed, struggling to slide his IV bag through the sleeve of a hospital robe. 

"What are you doing?" she exclaimed, moving forward to help him.

"Trying to get into this robe," Mark replied innocently.

"Well, I can see that," Amanda retorted. "Are you cold? I can have them get you some extra blankets. Or I'm sure Steve will bring you a pair of pajamas …"

"No, I'm just fine, thanks," Mark interrupted her. "I just prefer not to stroll around the corridor in just a hospital gown."

"You're not supposed to be strolling around the corridor," Amanda replied. "You're supposed to be resting; that's quite a concussion you have, you know."

Mark looked up at her, his expression a mixture of exasperation and stubbornness.

"Amanda, I have been lying in this bed all day, I have slept for hours, I have watched several boring and mindless soaps, seen more advertisements for debt relief, baby needs, and self-help training programs than I ever want to see in my life, and if I don't get out of this room for a few minutes, I'm going to go completely nuts." She couldn't quite hide a smile in response to this litany of boredom. "Besides," he continued, a hint of mischief creeping into his face, "post-surgical patients are supposed to get up and move around as soon as possible."

Amanda couldn't help feeling sympathetic to his plight. Mark was never one to enjoy sitting around helplessly; a trait he shared with his son, she reflected with rueful humor. But given the current circumstances, she wasn't sure that it was such a good idea for him to be wandering around. She had a feeling that Steve wouldn't be too pleased with such an activity; he had been quite emphatic when posting the guard on Mark's door that nobody who wasn't on the 'approved list' provided by Jesse was to have access to his father. She cast about, looking for something to use as a distraction, and caught sight of a covered meal tray shoved off to a corner of the room.

"Has dinner come already?" she asked, grasping at any excuse for delay. "Why don't you eat first, and then we'll talk to Jesse about whether it's a good idea for you to be up and about yet."

Mark cast a disgusted glance at the rejected tray. "That's the remains of lunch," he replied. "I'm really going to have to talk to the administration about the dietary restriction meals. The regular stuff is bad enough, but this is ridiculous."

Amanda lifted the cover of the plate and took a closer look at the starchy glop swimming in what looked like unadulterated tomato soup. 

"I can see what you mean," she said sympathetically. "Wasn't there anything else you could have?"

"I did eat the wilted leaves they served as a salad," Mark replied disparagingly. "Apparently 'pasta' – if you can call it that – is somebody's idea of the best way to fill a high-carbohydrate, low-protein diet." He gave a rueful grin, his normal good-humor reasserting itself. "'Diet' seems to be the operative word. If my kidney function levels don't come back up to normal soon, I may have a good head start on reducing my waistline a bit."

"I'll tell you what," Amanda suggested, smiling back at him. "How about I call down to the Chinese restaurant and order you something more enticing for dinner?"

"Now that sounds wonderful," Mark responded gratefully. "You are a true friend, Amanda."

"Glad to help," she replied. "Now why don't you settle in, and I'll find you something to read so you don't have to watch any more soaps."

Mark held her gaze, a distinct hint of amusement in his own. "Amanda, I am going for a walk," he stated firmly, "like a good little post-surgical patient."

"How about being a good little concussion patient and getting your rest?" she countered.

"Concussion does not require constant bed rest," Mark informed her patiently, "and you know it. So why the fuss over a little stroll down the hall?" 

Faced with that bright-eyed, alert gaze, Amanda realized that she wasn't likely to get away with any further prevaricating. Sighing, she opted for the truth.

"Mark, somebody tried to kill you," she replied. "I just don't think it's a good idea for you to go wandering around the halls." 

"I doubt that there's an assassin hanging around the hospital hallways just waiting for me to set foot out that door," Mark protested. "I'm not planning to roam around any dark corridors."

"Mark, we don't even know yet who's after you or why," Amanda replied. "Steve put that guard on the door to make sure that nobody could get to you here. I don't think he'd be very happy with you strolling up and down the halls."

At the mention of his son, Mark's amusement diminished considerably. Amanda had told him earlier of the events of the previous evening, and while she had deliberately left out the emotional details, he hadn't had much difficulty in imagining the impact it must have had on Steve to arrive at the beach house to find his father apparently murdered in their own home. He had no desire to put further stress on his son, but he really was going stir crazy locked in just these four walls. The concussion was clearing nicely, and he just wasn't feeling ill enough to make staying in bed all day bearable. Clearly a compromise was in order.

"Look, I really don't think I'm in any danger just walking around the corridor a bit," he said seriously. "I promise I won't go far from the room, and I'll stay in sight of the guard at all times. But I really do need to get out of here for a few minutes."

Succumbing to the reasonable tone and the coaxing look, Amanda gave in and helped Mark to his feet, bringing the mobile IV pole closer to his side so that he could easily grasp it. She watched as he took the first steps towards the door and was pleased to see that, after a slight, initial shakiness as he got his balance – natural enough for a person who had spent the last 24 hours in bed after surgery – he was quite steady on his feet. As she listened to him explaining his intentions to the disconcerted guard at the door, she reflected with wry amusement that it was really rather extraordinary how often Mark Sloan managed to coax people, herself included, into agreeing to things against their better judgement. 

Having successfully overridden the concerns of both his friend and his guard, who insisted on accompanying him and remaining in sight of the room so he could keep an eye on it as well, Mark walked out into the hospital corridor feeling as if he were emerging from a cocoon. Now that he was on his feet, he found that he was still somewhat woozy, but he was determined not to let that interfere with his small taste of freedom. He surveyed the familiar hubbub of activity as the nurses and staff went about the business of caring for the patients, occasionally exchanging smiles and greetings with people as they passed. Mindful of his promise, he was careful not to stray too far from his own room as he wandered slowly around. As he headed towards the nurses' station, he caught sight of a familiar-looking dark-haired man talking to the nurses and wondered why he seemed so familiar. By the time he arrived at the station, he had remembered where he had seen him.

"Mr. … Garrison, isn't it?" Mark hesitated a bit as he greeted the man, not quite sure that he had gotten the name right.

"Dr. Sloan?" Michael Garretson turned and stared at the doctor in astonishment. Pulling himself together, he extended his hand in greeting, correcting, "It's Garretson – Michael Garretson. I'd like to say it's nice to see you again," he continued smoothly, "but I'm not so sure I should, considering you seem to be a patient. What happened?"

"I had a bit of an accident last night," Mark replied casually. "How's your aunt doing?"

Garretson hesitated an instant before replying sadly, "I'm afraid she passed on earlier today. I'm just here to collect her things and fill out the necessary paperwork."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Mark said sympathetically. "Were you very close?"

"I was very fond of her," Garretson replied. "I didn't get to see as much of her as I would have liked, but she was a sweet old thing." He sighed briefly. "She'd been failing for quite a while, though, so I can't say that it comes as a big shock."

Mark offered his condolences again, which Garretson gracefully accepted. The younger man then excused himself on the grounds that he had to go fill out the requisite paperwork, expressing a polite wish for Mark's recovery. 

As Mark watched him walk away, he was distracted by a call of "Dad!" from behind him. Turning, he saw Steve striding toward him, obviously not too pleased to find his father out of his room. Muttering "uh oh" to the officer accompanying him, Mark moved to meet his son.

"Dad, what are you doing out here?" Steve demanded as he caught up to his father. His concerned gaze swept over the older man, torn between irritation at Mark's apparent disregard for his own safety and relief that he was obviously feeling well enough to be up and about. His father returned his gaze, the combination of sheepish apology and mischief on his face so characteristically Mark that Steve found his annoyance fading into a familiar sense of affectionate exasperation.

"Officer Conway was keeping an eye on me the whole time," Mark offered, by way of apology and excuse, as that officer attempted to look professional and inconspicuous at the same time. 

Steve shook his head ruefully, knowing that he wasn't going to be able to maintain the 'stern cop' exterior. "I won't even ask how you talked him into that. How am I supposed to make sure you're protected if you start wandering around all over the hospital?" he demanded, taking his father's arm and gently steering him back toward his room.

"I hardly think walking the couple of yards to the nurse's station can be considered 'wandering all over the hospital'," Mark responded dryly.

When they got back to Mark's room, Steve produced the pajamas he had brought so that his father wouldn't have to remain in the flimsy and revealing hospital gown, and carefully helped Mark into them, disentangling the IV bag and replacing it on the pole. Mark settled back into bed without protest, secretly more tired out by his small jaunt than he wanted to admit. That lack of protest didn't escape Steve's notice, nor did the signs of fatigue in his father's face. He refrained from comment, but he set about making sure his dad was comfortably settled, adjusting the bed and checking to see if he needed anything. He caught Mark's eye, saw the mild amusement there, and reflected ruefully that his father was undoubtedly quite familiar with the unconscious tendency to hover that he was now experiencing. He smiled down at him, the last traces of his irritation evaporating.

"I take it you're feeling better," he observed.

"I'm just fine," Mark replied. 

"He's a testament to the superb medical care around here," interjected Jesse's voice from the doorway. 

"Of course, we only hire the best here at Community General," agreed Mark with mock solemnity.

"So how did Jesse get hired?" quipped Steve. He grinned at his friend's show of indignation and protest, as Mark shook his head tolerantly at the pair of them. 

"So how's the investigation going?" Jesse asked, settling down to perch on the foot of Mark's bed. "Have you found out anything yet?" The query redirected Steve's attention to the questions he had to ask his father, and he sighed, seating himself in the bedside chair.

"There hasn't been much to find so far," he replied. "There doesn't seem to be anybody released from prison recently who might have a big enough grudge to do something like this." He looked over at his father, holding his gaze. "Is there anything you might have gotten involved in while I was away, Dad? Anything you've been looking into?"

"No, it's been so busy here at the hospital with everybody out with the 'flu that I've barely had time for anything else." Mark's sincerity was obvious, and Steve had no doubts about his truthfulness. 

"Do you remember the shooting itself?" he asked. "Did you see or hear anything before it happened?"

"I don't think so." Mark pondered what he could remember of the previous night. "I remember working on a few things while I was waiting for you to come home. I think I was heading out to sit on the deck when..." He shrugged and looked up to meet his son's intent gaze. "I don't remember noticing anything significant, but it's possible that the concussion might have caused a small lapse of memory." 

"You think Mark might have been shot because he saw something on the beach?" Jesse asked.

Steve shook his head in frustration. "I don't know, Jess. It doesn't seem real likely, I admit. Cheryl said a jogger heard the shots and saw an ATV driving off; you'd think if there was anything to see he'd have seen it too." He couldn't help thinking that if only he had managed to get home a little sooner, he might have seen something himself – might even have been able to prevent his father from getting shot.

"I'm sorry, son," Mark said, noting the tension in Steve's posture. "I wish there was more I could tell you."

Steve met the concern in his father's eyes and forced himself to relax. "It's okay, Dad," he assured him. "We'll find whoever did this."

"If it wasn't someone out for revenge, and Mark's not investigating anything now, and it wasn't something he saw, what's left?" Jesse asked.

"Maybe it's something else that happened recently," Steve suggested. He didn't want to mention his theory that it could be someone who wanted revenge on him; the last thing he wanted right now was to give his father reason to start worrying about him. He turned to Mark, saying, "Tell me everything you can remember about the past week." 

Mark raised an eyebrow, but did his best to recite his recent activities. Since the bulk of his time had, in fact, been spent pulling extended shifts at the hospital, there wasn't much to tell. Jesse chimed in with a few additional details now and then, but neither of them could think of anything that seemed to be out of the ordinary or potentially significant. They had pretty much covered the whole period in question when Amanda arrived, bearing a bag from the local Chinese restaurant.

The appetizing aroma wafting from the package immediately drew attention from both Jesse and Steve. Laughingly fending them off, Amanda pulled the rolling table up to Mark's bed and unloaded a carton of lo mein and a container of won-ton soup.

"Sorry," she told the two younger men, "I wasn't expecting a crowd. This is just for Mark; he hasn't had enough to eat today."

"Neither have I," protested Jesse, casting a would-be pitiful look at the pathologist, trying to sneak a hand out to snatch a noodle.

"You never have enough to eat," she retorted, slapping his hand away from the tray. "But you can go get your own; I promised Mark I'd get him something more appetizing than the slop they serve here for 'special diets'."

The arrival of the dinner tray at that moment served to reinforce her point; lifting the cover off the tray, Jesse was forced to admit that the unidentifiable casserole-type dish was distinctly unappealing. After a few more minutes of amicable squabbling and teasing, he and Amanda left, leaving Mark and Steve alone. 

"Do you want some?" Mark offered, knowing that Steve probably hadn't eaten much all day either. 

"That's okay, Dad," Steve replied, removing the cover from the hospital tray again. "I'll just eat this if you don't want it."

Mark shook his head at the incomprehensibility of his son's taste in food, but was perfectly willing to admit that he wasn't planning on eating it himself. Conversation during dinner was mostly casual, with only occasional references to Steve's investigations. Mark was concerned by the pressure he knew Steve was putting on himself, and he wanted to maintain as relaxed an atmosphere as he could, hoping to get his son to ease up a bit. The strategy seemed to be working; as they ate and chatted, Steve visibly relaxed, slouching a bit in his chair and yawning when he had finished eating.

Deciding that the time away from the case was probably good for his son, Mark encouraged him to stay for a while, turning on a ballgame on the TV. Still feeling the effects of the concussion and his first foray out on his feet, Mark found himself starting to doze off as he watched. Jerking himself awake some time later, he looked over to find that Steve had nodded off as well in the chair. Amused by the apparent success of his attempt to get him to relax, Mark rather hated to wake him, but he knew that his son really needed a good night's sleep in a real bed. He leaned over to gently shake Steve's arm.

"Steve. Wake up, son," he called. Getting no response, he leaned further over the edge of the bed to get closer to the chair. Grasping the sleeping man's shoulder, he shook him firmly, calling his name in a louder voice. To his horrified dismay, Steve slumped completely sideways and slid off the chair.

Taken by surprise, Mark wasn't fast enough to prevent Steve from hitting the floor. Dropping down on his knees beside his unconscious son, he felt for a pulse, alarmed to find that it was faint and slow and his breathing barely detectable. He lurched quickly to his feet and headed for the door to get help, only to find himself restrained by the IV line that had gotten tangled around the bed rail as he'd slid out of bed. Unwilling to waste time disentangling himself, he impatiently yanked the line out of his arm and raced for the door.

"Get me a crash cart and a gurney, STAT," he urgently called to a passing nurse. "And page Dr. Travis if he's still around."

As the nurse ran off, he returned swiftly to Steve's side, once again dropping to his knees beside the crumpled figure, his heart plummeting as he realized that his son was no longer breathing.


	8. Chapter 8

****

Chapter 8

Fighting down the terror that was flooding his mind and heart, Mark stretched his son's motionless body out on the floor and began to perform artificial respiration as he waited for reinforcements with a crash cart. They weren't long in arriving, and a nurse and the resident on duty helped lift Steve up onto the bed to make room for them to work. Once they had him laid out, Mark inserted the breathing tube, while the resident attached the leads to the heart monitor and the nurse checked his pulse and blood pressure. When the ventilator was started, Mark was able to draw his own first free breath, relieved of the immediate anxiety of Steve suffering brain damage from oxygen starvation. Steve's heart rate was severely slowed, his blood pressure dangerously low, his eyes dilated, his skin cool. Mark rapidly reviewed the symptoms and their implications, as they worked to make sure Steve was stable enough to transfer to the emergency room. They were just lifting the unconscious detective onto the gurney when Jesse rushed in.

"Mark, what happened?" he asked, as he automatically moved to assist in the transfer.

"It looks like possible barbiturate poisoning," Mark replied tensely. "It must have been in the dinner. We'll need to get his stomach pumped out." 

Jesse flashed a concerned look at the older physician.

"What about you? Did you eat any of it?"

Mark shook his head impatiently. "No. I didn't eat any of the dinner that came up from the kitchen. Just Steve." The knowledge that Steve had ingested the poison meant for him sent a sharp stab of pain and guilt through him, but he resolutely pushed the thought to the back of his mind as he concentrated on making sure his son would survive the attack. As they wheeled the gurney out into the hall, he glanced at the police guard, who had been trying to keep out of everybody's way while maintaining a watch on the situation. 

"Have somebody see if the dinner trays from this floor have been cleaned up yet," he ordered. "If they haven't been, have them hold my tray for analysis."

"I'm sorry, Dr. Sloan," Officer Conway said, holding Mark back. "But you really need to stay here."

Mark's head snapped around, no trace of his usual good humor in eyes dark with anger. 

"I'm going with my son," he declared in a tone that few people ever heard him use, and that no one ever argued with. "If you want to come along, that's fine, but I am **not** staying here." Without waiting for a response, he turned and strode rapidly after the gurney that had continued on during this exchange. Conway snapped himself out of the momentary stupor engendered by this sudden transformation from the geniality he had come to associate with the doctor and trotted after him, catching up with the group as the elevator doors opened. 

Mark ignored the presence of the guard, barely noticing that Conway was using his cell phone to call in to the station and to arrange for someone to check on the status of the dinner trays. The doctor's attention was entirely focussed on his son, painfully aware of the continual slowing of Steve's heart rate, dreading that it would stop altogether. The four-floor descent to the ER seemed like the longest elevator ride of Mark's life, his entire consciousness hanging on every breath forced into Steve's lungs by the ventilator, every blip of the heart monitor, feeling as if his own heart beat were tied to the rhythm of his son's.

That beat started to become erratic as they whisked Steve into a treatment room and transferred him onto the examination table. Mark hovered anxiously as Jesse performed the actions necessary to empty Steve's stomach, sending samples of the presumably toxic contents, as well as some blood, to the lab for confirmation of Mark's suspicions. They had barely finished pumping the stomach, when the subdued blipping of the monitor suddenly changed to a high-pitched alarm.

"He's going into afib," called the nurse, setting off an immediate scramble to set up the defibrillator. Mark's own breath stopped as he watched, an iron vise agonizingly squeezing his heart as the medical team worked to resuscitate his son. Failing to get a response from the first shock, Jesse quickly injected a dose of epinephrine and applied the paddles for another attempt. With each jolt to Steve's body, a corresponding burst of anguish ripped through Mark, as he desperately tried to will his son back to life. Not until the monitor suddenly resumed a slow, but steady beeping did the constriction in his chest ease enough to allow him to draw a full breath. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he unobtrusively grasped a corner of the table to steady himself, clinging to alertness only through sheer determination, refusing to succumb to his own weakness until he knew his son was out of danger. 

Fortunately for Mark, Jesse was too occupied in making sure that Steve was stable to notice the older doctor's unsteadiness. They set up an IV to get fluids into his system as quickly as possible, both to increase his blood pressure and to help flush the toxin from his system. Steve's vital signs began to improve, his heart beat increasing a bit in strength and speed. After a few minutes, the improvement was sufficient to allow the doctors to feel reasonably confident that Steve was no longer in imminent danger of coding. It was only then, when Jesse turned to discuss with Mark the advisability of further measures, that the younger physician noticed how pale and shaky his friend was and remembered that he was still recovering from a severe concussion and surgery. 

"Mark, you need to lie down," he said in quick concern, moving to examine him more closely. 

"I'm okay, Jesse," Mark responded. "I can't leave yet."

Jesse surveyed his friend, weighing the stubbornness and determination he saw in Mark's face against the obvious weakness he was exhibiting. With a mental sigh, knowing that Steve's father would never rest anyway until the detective was safely on the road to recovery, he sent a nurse for a wheelchair and persuaded Mark to at least sit down while they waited for the results of the bloodwork and monitored Steve's condition. Unable to deny the wooziness that was assailing him as his overtaxed system struggled to cope with the overload of crisis-produced adrenaline on top of the after-effects of concussion, Mark accepted this compromise, subsiding thankfully into the chair that the nurse wheeled in. He remained by his son's side, however, registering the passage of time in terms of mechanically aided breaths and heart beats.

It wasn't long before the lab results came back, confirming a high concentration of barbiturates in Steve's blood. Having stabilized the detective and ensured that his heart beat was regular, if slower than normal, there was nothing they could do now but wait for the drug to wear off enough for Steve's lungs to resume functioning on their own. Since this could take quite a while, Jesse decided that they might as well move Steve up to a room; it wasn't necessary to keep him in the ER. He arranged to have another bed placed in Mark's room, reasoning that since Mark was undoubtedly going to spend the night at his son's side, they might as well set it up so that he could get some rest at the same time. And this way, the young doctor reflected wryly, father and son could keep an eye on each other the next day.

Once they had Steve safely ensconced in Mark's room, Jesse turned his attention to trying to convince his original patient that he could just as well keep an eye on his son from the next bed as propped in the bedside chair. He wasn't surprised, however, when Mark refused to retreat that far yet. He didn't really expect him to be able to relax until Steve was off the ventilator and breathing on his own. As they waited, the two doctors discussed the logistics of the poisoning.

"You think the drugs were added to your dinner tray?" Jesse asked.

"They must have been," Mark replied. "Steve was fine until after dinner; with the amount of barbiturate his blood shows, he'd have felt the effects less than an hour after taking it." He paused, thinking back over their meal together. "I noticed that he was getting sleepy after we ate," he said, "but I just attributed it to stress and the lack of sleep the night before. I should have realized that he was getting too sleepy too fast. I was surprised that he seemed to be so relaxed, but I never stopped to think about it." He shook his head, mentally castigating himself for failing to recognize the signs. His son had been poisoned under his very nose, and he had almost let him die without raising a finger. The thought of having slept obliviously on while his son was dying in the chair beside him was lashing him with a stinging whip of guilt. 

Jesse was quick to pick up on the note of guilt in Mark's words, and moved instantly to squash it. 

"Hey, there's nothing remarkable about Steve being tired after the night and day he's had. There's no reason you should have thought there was anything strange about it. Besides," he added shrewdly, remembering how tired Mark had seemed when he and Amanda left his room, "you were probably half asleep yourself, weren't you?"

Unable to dispute this, Mark voiced the other thought that was sending ripples of illogical guilt through him. "That poison was meant for me," he stated, the beginnings of a seething anger welling up as he considered again the fact that his son had almost been killed in what had been an attempt on his life. "Somebody put that barbiturate in my dinner; if Amanda hadn't brought me that Chinese food, I would have eaten it." He stopped short of voicing his accompanying thought, that it should have been him who was lying there now instead of his son. 

Jesse didn't need to hear the sentiment uttered aloud to know what Mark was thinking. "Well, it's a good thing you didn't," he asserted firmly. "You were able to realize what had happened, and we were able to save Steve." 

Both men turned to look at their patient and were pleased to see that his condition had improved considerably. Jesse raised Steve's eyelids, checking the pupilary response.

"Reaction's much better," he reported with satisfaction. "See if you can get a response out of him."

Mark reached out to grip his son's shoulder, leaning close to Steve's ear.

"Steve? Son, can you hear me?" he asked, his voice tight with suppressed emotion. Steve stirred slightly, eliciting a broad smile from Jesse.

"Good, he's reactive," he observed. "I think we can remove the ventilator now and see how he does."

Mark kept his eyes glued to Steve's face as Jesse turned off the machine, waiting in tense anticipation for his son to draw that first unassisted breath. It seemed an abnormally long moment in coming, but come it did, to the undisguised relief of his father and friend. Jesse flashed a triumphant smile at Mark, as they realized that the worst was over; Steve was going to be all right. 

Despite his exhaustion, Mark remained awake for some time after Jesse left, watching Steve and thinking. Now that he no longer needed to focus exclusively on insuring Steve's immediate survival, his mind was increasingly filled with the anger over this latest attempt that had so nearly claimed the life of his son. It was suddenly a matter of much greater urgency that he discover who was behind these attacks. He lay in bed reviewing the information he had, the possibilities of who, why, and how revolving endlessly through his mind, until his body finally succumbed to the effects of the physical and emotional strains of the past 24 hours. As he faded reluctantly into sleep, his last conscious thought was an absolute determination to find the person who had almost killed his son.


	9. Chapter 9

****

Chapter 9

Steve drifted to consciousness the next morning, gradually becoming aware of a clinging lassitude and a rawness in his throat. He wondered vaguely if he were getting sick, and lay with his eyes still closed, trying to remember if he had felt this bad when he went to bed. It occurred to him that he didn't seem to remember going to bed. It was a moment longer before he realized that he didn't seem to be wearing his usual nighttime attire or his regular clothes; in fact, it felt like he was wearing a nightshirt – his bare legs brushing against the sheets. He concentrated on remembering what had gone on the previous night, and recalled eating dinner with his father… His father! The events of the past two days returned in a rush, and Steve suddenly realized that the last thing he remembered was having dinner with Mark; everything after that was a total blank. A sudden burst of fear sent a jolt of adrenaline coursing through his veins, helping to clear the cloying after-effects of the drug he had been given. His eyes snapped open, and he realized with a sense of shock that he was lying in a hospital bed, clad in a hospital gown, an IV attached to one arm. 

Anxiety clutched at him as he scanned the room, noting the empty bed beside him. Before the fear of what might have happened could escalate further, the door to the bathroom opened, and Mark stepped back into the room, his face lighting up into a smile as he saw his son awake.

"Dad?" Steve queried, his fear subsiding somewhat, but still definitely bewildered. "What happened? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Mark responded soothingly, coming to sit on the edge of his son's bed. "How are you feeling?"

"Confused," replied Steve, relaxing further as he realized that his father appeared to be unharmed. "What happened?"

"It seems someone added an extra ingredient to last night's dinner," Mark replied. "You ingested an overdose of barbiturates." 

"What about you?" Steve asked in quick alarm. 

"I'm fine," Mark assured him again. "I didn't eat any of the hospital dinner." 

Even as he accepted the reassurance of Mark's physical well-being, Steve picked up on the subtle signs of stress and the faint shadow in his father's eyes as he explained the events of the previous evening, and he felt a pang of regret that his father had once again endured the anguish of fearing for his son's life. His own recent experiences with being on the worrying end of that situation had increased his empathy for the strain and agony it entailed, and he placed a hand lightly on Mark's arm, remembering his own need for the reassurance of physical contact, hoping to ease some of the lingering tension.

"You always did tell me that the hospital food wasn't good for me," he said lightly. He met his father's gaze, both of them recognizing, in that exchange of glances, the concern each felt for the other. Steve was relieved to see a glimmer of a smile light his father's eyes, but further communication was interrupted by the arrival of Jesse and Amanda, bearing bags of food.

"We brought you nice, fresh breakfast, straight from the coffee shop down the street," Jesse announced as Amanda wheeled the rolling tables in front of each of their friends. 

"That was very thoughtful of you," Mark replied, getting up from his perch on Steve's bed.

"Well, after last night, we figured even Steve wouldn't find the hospital food too appealing," Jesse explained with a grin.

"How are you both feeling?" Amanda asked.

"Hungry," Steve replied, sitting up straighter and checking out the food with interest.

"Well, I'm glad to see that last night's little episode hasn't ruined your appetite," quipped Jesse. 

By tacit consent, the four friends refrained from discussing the details of the poisoning until after Mark and Steve had finished eating. Inevitably, it was Jesse who first brought the subject back up.

"You know," he mused, "it seems like a pretty iffy proposition trying to poison someone right in the hospital. After all, we were able to provide the proper treatment almost immediately."

Mark's face sobered as he replied, "Actually, the planning was better than it seems. No one would be likely to think anything was wrong if they came in and saw a patient asleep after dinner. The natural instinct would be not to disturb him. By the time the nurses came around for the nighttime check and realized that something was wrong, it would be too late." He carefully shoved to the back of his mind the thought of what would have been the result if he had decided not to disturb his son. 

Steve's expression darkened as well, as he contemplated the scenario Mark described. He hadn't had much chance yet to really consider the implications of the poisoning, and he felt his stomach knot as he realized that, had Mark eaten that meal and fallen asleep, he would undoubtedly have left without wanting to disturb him. The thought that he would have walked away and left his father to die was chilling, and he felt a fierce rush of anger at the persistence of this killer, who had come so close to killing Mark twice now.

"We need to figure out who wants you dead so badly they've tried to kill you twice in 24 hours," he declared grimly, turning to his father. "Are you sure you can't think of anything that might have any bearing on this?"

"It does seem to indicate a certain sense of urgency and determination," Mark conceded. 

"Whoever it was must have had access to the food trays," Jesse observed. 

"You think it was someone who works here?" asked Amanda.

"Not necessarily," replied Mark. "Those carts are wheeled around and left unattended while the aide brings the individual trays into the rooms. Anybody could have hung around and slipped the drug into the food or drink."

"He'd be taking a pretty big risk of being seen, wouldn't he?" queried Steve, focussing on the logistical problem. "After all, he'd have to look over all the trays to find the right one, and then lift the lid and add the drug."

"Probably not such a big risk," Jesse told him. "The dinners were delivered shortly after the change of shift, when the staff is particularly busy and there are a lot of visitors coming and going."

"And he needn't have done it all at once," Mark added. "People go back and forth along the hall all the time. He could have identified the tray on a trip out, and then it would just be a matter of seconds on the way back to actually add the drug."

"So all the person needed to know was your room number," Amanda concluded, "and to be familiar enough with the process of delivering meals to know how to identify the right tray."

"That could be anybody who's ever been a patient or a visitor," said Jesse.

"I need to talk to Cheryl and see what else she's found out," Steve said, his voice tight with frustration. "Jesse, when can I get out of here?"

Jesse and Mark exchanged glances in silent consultation. Seeing Mark's slight nod, Jesse replied, "If you're feeling up to it and your blood work comes back normal, there's no reason that you can't leave today. I'll have somebody draw some blood and ask the lab to give me a stat analysis."

"Thanks. How long will that take?"

Mark flashed a rueful smile at Jesse, and addressed his son. 

"Steve, take it easy. Jesse'll get you released just as soon as he's sure you're okay. In the meantime, I'm sure Cheryl'll be by this morning to let us know what they've come up with."

Steve looked over at his father and felt his conscience twinge. He'd be getting out this morning, but what about Mark? It couldn't have done the older man any good to have gone through the emotional and physical stress of the previous evening when he was already suffering the effects of a serious concussion. And sitting around out of action when something was going on didn't come any more naturally to his father than it did to him. His face softening, he queried, "How about you, Dad? How are you doing?"

Mark had no difficulty following his son's thought processes, and there was a hint of affectionate amusement in his eye as he replied, "I'm doing fine. With any luck, my bloodwork will show improvement in the kidney function, and I'll be out of here later today or tomorrow."

Steve eyed his father consideringly as he pondered the recent events and their implications for Mark's safety. Even with the guard on his door, the hospital hadn't proven any safer than the beach house. On the other hand, they were now more alert and cognizant of the ways someone could still get to a patient in a hospital room, and it was certainly a more confined and public place than their home. Staying in the hospital was probably still the better bet.

"Just make sure you don't eat or drink anything unless one of us brings it to you," he instructed his father. He looked over at their friends. "We can work out a schedule of who's going to get his meals. We either get something from outside or we pick up the meal straight from the kitchen and bring it directly here."

"I think we can manage a couple of food runs to one of the local restaurants," Amanda offered. "I'm sure Mark would enjoy that better than the hospital food anyway."

They were discussing the logistics of ensuring that no one had the opportunity to tamper with any of Mark's food or medicines, when Cheryl arrived. 

"We just can't keep you out of trouble, can we, Sloan?" she asked by way of greeting as she entered.

"Which one?" quipped Jesse, earning a quick grin from Steve and a look of startled innocence from Mark.

After a brief exchange of the usual pleasantries and queries about the patients' health, Jesse and Amanda returned to work, and Cheryl brought the Sloans up to speed on what they had found out so far. Which wasn't much, as Steve disgustedly observed as they went over the information. They had been able to retrieve Mark's dinner tray, and lab tests did confirm that a lethal dose of Pentobarbital had been added to the casserole. There were plenty of fingerprints on the tray and lid, but so far, the only ones they were able to identify were Steve's, Jesse's, and those of the kitchen aide who delivered the tray. There was no way of telling which, if any, of the other smeared prints were relevant. They were running all of them through NCIC, but nothing had turned up yet. Which, Mark pointed out, meant that either the killer wore gloves or handled the lid with a napkin or some kind of cloth, or that he or she was not, in fact, someone whom Mark had helped send to prison.

"Well that pretty much leaves us nowhere," complained Steve with some bitterness. 

"If it's not someone either of you sent to prison," queried Cheryl, exasperation coloring her voice as well, "then what other reason would someone have to kill your dad?"

Mark had cast her a startled glance as he picked up on the suggestion that it might be Steve who was being targeted for revenge, but as she finished her question, his expression turned thoughtful.

"Well," he mused out loud, "other than revenge, what are the usual motives for murder?"

"Money," promptly responded Cheryl.

"Oh, I think we can rule out Steve trying to kill me to get his inheritance," Mark said in amusement. 

"Gee, thanks," his son replied sardonically.

Mark cast him a quick glance brimming with mischief, and added, "Besides, if he was ever going to kill me, he'd have done it after I accidentally let his last girlfriend know that he really missed their big date because he was…"

"Okay, that's enough," Steve interrupted. "I thought you were ruling me out, not trying to supply me with a motive!" He couldn't quite suppress an involuntary smile in response to the teasing glint in his father's eyes.

They spent an unfruitful half hour trying to come up with a good reason someone might be trying to kill Mark, then Cheryl left to follow up on checking the backgrounds of the kitchen staff and the aide who delivered the dinner tray. In the interests of taking a closer look at everything he'd been involved with during the past week, Mark suggested that he review the files on all the patients he'd seen during that time. Steve agreed that that would be a good idea, but when Mark got up, intending to get the relevant charts, Steve promptly protested that he didn't want his father leaving the room, setting off a dispute about the feasibility of Mark remaining confined to the room for the duration of his hospital stay and the improbability of anything happening to him while wandering around the hallways under guard. Steve knew that he was being overcautious, but he really didn't want to take any chances. It had been traumatic enough to have his father almost killed while he was away; the near-success of the murderer in poisoning Mark while he was in a guarded room, in his son's presence, had shaken Steve badly, seriously impeding his ability to view the matter of Mark's safety with any objective rationality. 

While they were still arguing the point, Jesse came back, a somewhat nervous-looking resident in tow.

"Good news," Jesse announced, addressing Steve. "Your bloodwork came back clean, and you can check out this morning." He grinned at his friend and added, "Unless, that is, you prefer to stick around and sample our lunch menu."

"Thanks, I think I've had enough of the hospital food this time around," Steve replied dryly. "Although, if Amanda's planning on bringing some more of that Chinese food over any time soon…"

Interrupting this badinage, Mark turned his attention to the resident who had accompanied Jesse.

"Hi, Ryan," he greeted him. "Are you doing rounds with Dr. Travis?"

"Well, actually, I, uh," the resident stammered diffidently, "I'm sorry to bother you, but Dr. Travis said I should ask you…" He trailed off awkwardly, and Jesse, taking pity on his obvious discomfort, interceded.

"They need you to sign a death certificate," the blond doctor told Mark. "Apparently one of the patients you were seeing for Dan Engleton died yesterday, and since Dan is still out sick, there's no one to sign the certificate. And since you are both the head of the department and the last doctor to see her …"

"I'm the logical person to see," concluded Mark. 

"Her nephew has been calling about it," added the resident, taking courage from the fact that Mark didn't seem to be annoyed by this intrusion into his presumed rest and recovery time. "He wants the body released to the mortuary."

"Would that be Mrs. Gallegher?" Mark asked, remembering his encounter with her nephew the day before.

Ryan nodded. "That's right. I brought her file," he said, holding it out to the older doctor. 

"That's fine," Mark said with a smile. "Just leave it here, and I'll take care of it."

Ryan flashed him a grateful smile and departed with obvious relief. Mark looked after him with slightly exasperated amusement.

"You know," he said to Jesse, "he really does have to relax more. I don't remember ever having a resident who was so nervous every time he came to talk to me."

"That's because some of the older residents have been telling him stories," Jesse replied with a grin. "He was so nervous around the senior staff that they couldn't resist leading him on. And, of course, you're the head of Internal Medicine and not exactly a typical department head, and you have quite a reputation for investigating crimes…"

"And you've been adding fuel to the fire as well," speculated Mark, reading the mischief in his colleague's face with the ease of long practice. "What on earth have you been telling the poor kid? Never mind," he interrupted hastily, as Jesse opened his mouth to respond, "I'm not sure I really want to know!" He fixed his friend with a firm gaze and ordered, "Just make sure you let everyone know that it's time to cut it out. That boy is nervous enough about his residency; if you make him any worse, he'll start making mistakes."

Jesse managed to look suitably abashed, but he knew from the hint of a twinkle in the blue eyes watching him that Mark wasn't seriously annoyed and that older physician knew Jesse would never let it go that far. A faint, irrepressible spark of mischief remained in Jesse's gaze as he promised to let the more senior residents know that it was time to let up on that particular pastime.

"So, now that you've decided to stop tormenting unsuspecting residents," demanded Steve, "can I get out of here?"

"What's the matter – not happy with the hospitality around here?" quipped Jesse. 

Mark ignored the continuing banter as he leafed through the patient file Ryan had handed him. As he reviewed the charts and test results, he frowned pensively, reflecting back on his own observations and thoughts when he had seen Mrs. Gallegher. He was yanked out of his musings by an insistent call of "Mark? Hey, Mark!" 

"Hmm?" He looked up to see Jesse and Steve staring at him, and realized they had been trying to get his attention. "Sorry, I was just thinking…" he apologized, his voice trailing off distractedly.

"What's so absorbing in that chart?" Jesse asked curiously. "I took a quick look at it when Ryan brought it to me, but I didn't see anything startling."

"It's more what's not in the chart," Mark replied thoughtfully. He looked around at the other two men, a familiar glint in his eyes. "We may have just found a motive for murder!"


	10. Chapter 10

****

Chapter 10

At Mark's pronouncement, Steve and Jesse exchanged glances compounded of equal parts anticipation and exasperation.  


"He's got that look again," Jesse observed to his friend, who nodded wryly.

"Dad, you want to let us in on whatever it is you're thinking?" Steve asked, impatience welling up in him as the hope rose that Mark might have finally come up with something to explain the determined attempts to kill him.

"Mrs. Gallegher was one of the last patients I saw before I went home the other day," Mark told them. "She was admitted for respiratory complications of the 'flu, and she wasn't doing very well. There was no indication of a history of heart problems, and her heart rate was normal when she was admitted, but it seemed to be steadily declining since. Something just didn't seem right, so I ordered some additional tests."

"What did the tests show?" Jesse asked. 

"Well, now, that's the interesting part," Mark said, glancing back down at the file. "I ordered an EKG and a full blood workup with electrolytes before I went home, but there don't seem to be any reports in the file."

"Maybe she died before they did the tests?" Jesse speculated.

"I ordered those tests Wednesday afternoon," Mark responded. "According to this file, she died at 12:28 Thursday afternoon. There's no way those tests shouldn't have been run."

"Maybe they didn't bother putting the results in the file after she died?" suggested Steve.

"They're supposed to," Jesse replied. "And they usually do." He looked doubtfully at Mark. "But it wouldn't be the first time a lab report was delayed or misplaced."

"No, but it is unusual," Mark said, "especially for the results of the scan to be missing as well. And since the patient is dead, it should be looked into."

"Especially since we're looking for anything that happened recently that might be unusual," Steve emphasized. "And especially since this happens to involve a death."

"I think I'll call down to the lab; they should have a record of the blood tests and the results," Mark suggested, picking up the phone. Jesse and Steve watched as he talked to the person in the lab, exchanging glances as they saw the gleam that brightened Mark's eye as he listened to the person on the other end. They waited impatiently as Mark finished his conversation and hung up.

"So?" Jesse asked eagerly as soon as Mark removed the receiver from his ear. "What did the lab tests show?"

"Significantly elevated potassium levels," Mark replied.

Steve looked from one doctor to the other. "And that means…?" he prompted.

"Well, too much potassium can cause a slow heart rate or even heart failure," Jesse responded. "But there are medical conditions that can cause the potassium levels to rise."

"True," said Mark. "But in this case, so far there doesn't seem to be any other condition that would do that. But we'll have to get an autopsy to be sure."

"And if there is no evidence of a condition that would cause the potassium levels to be high?" asked Steve. 

"Then somebody was probably injecting Mrs. Gallegher with potassium," answered his father. 

"In which case, we're talking about murder," added Jesse excitedly.

"Wait a minute," Steve protested as he tried to assess the implications of this information. "Even assuming that somebody did murder this Mrs. Gallegher – and it seems to me that we're jumping a bit to conclusions here – she wasn't killed until yesterday. Why shoot Dad Wednesday?"

"She may not have died until yesterday," Mark responded, "but somebody had probably been giving her low doses of extra potassium for days; that's why the elevated levels showed up in the blood tests."

"Why didn't it show up before?" asked Steve.

"Because apparently nobody had run her electrolytes yet," Mark replied. "The rate of decrease was slow enough, and Mrs. Gallegher was sick enough, that it wouldn't necessarily raise any flags."

"Except to you," Steve observed, his tone that of someone stating the obvious, a hint of somewhat rueful pride in the slight smile in his eyes. 

"Well, I've been around for a while," Mark replied deprecatingly. 

"So, whoever it was, was probably counting on nobody noticing anything strange," Jesse summed up. "But when you took over, they must have realized that you were a whole different story and decided to get rid of you before you could catch on to what was happening." He flashed an irrepressible grin at the older physician and added, "Talk about a fatal reputation!" Steve shot him a distinctly unappreciative grimace, but Mark ignored the quip.

"All this is still speculation," he cautioned. "We won't know for sure if Mrs. Gallegher died as a result of an overdose of potassium until we get an autopsy."

"So let's get Amanda to do the autopsy and see what we've got," Steve said, determined to follow up this first possible lead as quickly as possible.

"That may not be so easy," Mark responded. "I doubt if we have enough to convince a judge to give us a court order for an autopsy. We may have to get permission from the next of kin."

"Would that be the nephew Ryan mentioned?" Jesse asked.

"Probably. He was the one who came to get her effects and sign the paperwork yesterday."

"How do you know that?" Jesse asked in surprise.

"I ran into him at the nurse's station when I took my little stroll yesterday," answered Mark. A speculative gleam glinted in his eyes. "He was there when I saw Mrs. Gallegher Wednesday afternoon, too."

Steve latched onto his father's thought immediately. "Meaning that he might have realized that you were going to order more tests and wanted to prevent you from doing so."

"And if he was here yesterday, he could have hung around and put the Pentobarbital in your dinner tray!" added Jesse.

"Maybe we should find out some more about Mr. Michael Garretson," suggested Mark.

"I'm on it," promptly responded Steve. He picked up the phone and dialed Cheryl's number at the precinct, stretching the phone cord across the bed as he attempted to retrieve his clothes from the closet at the same time. Seeing him struggling to reach the clothes without dropping the phone, Jesse went over to help, exchanging a grin with Mark over his friend's eagerness to get moving. By the time Steve had finished telling Cheryl to run a complete check on Michael Garretson, he was already half dressed. Now that he finally had a promising possibility of a suspect and motive for the attacks on his father, the last traces of sluggishness seemed to dissolve in a wave of new energy, as he resolved to track down all available information before the killer had a chance to try another attack on Mark. Pausing only to emphasize to his father that he should stay in his room for the time being and to promise to let him know as soon as they had any information on Garretson, he left quickly, his stride rapid and purposeful as he headed for the exit.

Mark watched his son go, pleased to see that Steve had obviously completely recovered from the poisoning, but unable to suppress a feeling of frustration that he himself was once again confined to the hospital room. Resolutely refocusing his mind on the problem, he resigned himself to a strictly cerebral role for the time being. Of course, it wouldn't be the first – or, probably, the last – time he made use of his friends' willing services to aid in the more active parts of an investigation. Turning to Jesse, he found that that young man was watching him with an alert spark in his eye.

"So, what do you want me to do?" Jesse asked expectantly.

Mark smiled at him appreciatively. "Michael Garretson isn't the only one who knew that I was thinking of performing tests," he said, getting down to business. "And potassium isn't the usual choice of murder weapon for a layman. It might not be a bad idea to ask around and see who else was involved in Mrs. Gallegher's care or who might have had access to her chart Wednesday night to see that I had ordered more tests." 

"I can do that," Jesse said. "I'll talk to the nurses on the floor and see what I can find out."

"Good. I know that new nurse, Caitlyn Rogers, was there Wednesday when I saw Mrs. Gallegher. She seemed a bit nervous; at the time, I just figured it was because she was new, but you might want to make a point of talking to her."

"Okay," agreed Jesse. "I'll sound her out."

Mark nodded, then called out as Jesse started to leave, "Don't say anything about our suspicions. Let's just keep this quiet until we know where we are."

Shortly after Jesse left, Amanda came up to see Mark. Jesse had filled her in on their theory, and she and Mark discussed the possible means of obtaining and administering potassium. While the autopsy had to wait for either court or family approval, there were several things she could look into in the meantime. The most logical place the potassium could have come from was the hospital's own supply, and they agreed that Amanda should check around and see if she could find any indication that some was missing and who might have taken it.

Having sent his troops out to do the active work, Mark lay back and tried to concentrate on what their next move should be should his suspicions prove to be correct. As he was thinking, a nurse entered to check on him, and he recognized Caitlyn Rogers. Her arrival was so apropos to his thoughts, that it took him a moment to realize that she was merely here making her normal nursing rounds. He had forgotten that his room was on the same ward as Mrs. Gallegher's – that was why Michael Garretson had been at this nurse's station the day before. Grateful for the unexpected opportunity to do some preliminary investigating himself, he quickly marshalled his thoughts as he decided on an approach.

"Hi, Caitlyn," he greeted her casually. 

"Hello, Dr. Sloan," she replied with a smile. "How are you feeling?"

"Pretty good," he replied. "With any luck, I'll be out of here by tomorrow."

"That's great," she said warmly. "We were all so shocked to hear that you had been shot. I couldn't believe it when they told me."

"I was a bit surprised myself," Mark replied with a touch of dry humor. "Last time we met, I was asking you questions about a patient – now I am a patient!" He watched her smile in response, and added as if the thought had just occurred to him, "Actually, that was Mrs. Gallegher, wasn't it? I was sorry to hear that she died yesterday." The eyes that came up to briefly meet his were startled and wary.

"Yes, it was very sad," Caitlyn said, a touch of constraint suddenly apparent in her manner. "How did you hear about that?"

"I ran into her nephew yesterday when he came to get her things," Mark responded easily. "He seemed to be taking it pretty well."

"Well, it wasn't exactly unexpected, I'm afraid," she said. 

"He seemed quite fond of her, though," Mark pursued. "Did he come to visit her a lot?"

"I … I don't really know," Caitlyn responded, hesitating slightly. "I only saw him a few times. Of course, he could have come when I wasn't around. Well, I'm glad everything seems to be in order here," she said, quickly recording his vitals on the chart. "Is there anything you need before I go?"

Noting her increasing nervousness and sudden desire to retreat, Mark reflected that it was probably better to let her go without saying anything else to alarm her. He thanked her, denying that he needed anything, and watched her immediately disappear. He reflected somewhat sadly that it seemed more than likely that she was involved in some way in Mrs. Gallegher's death. She had seemed like a nice girl and a promising young nurse, but she was obviously not very good at subterfuge, and the sudden change in her demeanor when he had introduced the subject of Mrs. Gallegher's death certainly argued that she had reason to know that all was not what it should be there. The question now was how involved was she and what motive would she have for killing her patient. He decided to call Steve and have him check into her background as well.

Upon leaving Mark's room, Caitlyn Rogers went about finishing her rounds with her mind on auto pilot, mentally replaying the conversation she had had with the doctor. Part of her insisted that the questions he had asked were simply casual conversation, but she couldn't allay the niggling anxiety that perhaps he was suspicious of the death. The fact that he had asked about the frequency of Michael's visits seemed to support that interpretation. She squirmed inwardly, thinking of her fumbling response. Taken by surprise, she hadn't been sure what she should say or if she should even admit to any knowledge of his comings and goings. 

This whole situation was shaking Caitlyn badly. While she had been horrified to hear that someone had tried to kill Mark, she had had to admit that, in a way, it had seemed like a godsend that his attention would presumably be diverted from his patients for some time. A stray thought that the timing was remarkably fortuitous had been easily dismissed. Her trust in Michael was too absolute for her to entertain any doubts of his possible involvement in such a crime. When Camille Gallegher had succumbed to the overdoses of potassium the day after Mark had been admitted to the hospital, Caitlyn had merely been grateful for the timing and relieved that they were presumably home free. At Michael's suggestion, she had removed the lab and EKG reports from the patient file, so whoever reviewed the case would not see anything amiss. It seemed a terrible stroke of ill luck that Mark had been admitted to this floor and had encountered Michael, thus bringing Mrs. Gallegher's death to his attention. Caitlyn had heard many of the stories about the perspicacious Dr. Sloan and his extraordinary diagnostic and detective abilities, and his involvement in Camille Gallegher's case had her severely rattled. She decided that her best bet was to meet Michael after her shift and talk to him about it, reflecting with confidence that Michael was always very good at solving problems. 


	11. Chapter 11

****

Chapter 11

Later that day, Jesse, Amanda, and Steve were gathered in Mark's room eating dinner and comparing notes on what they had learned. Steve brought them up to date on the results of the background checks.

"It seems that Michael Garretson is the main beneficiary of Camille Gallegher's will," Steve informed them. "And while Mrs. Gallegher wasn't exactly rich, she did leave a reasonably sizeable estate – certainly enough to look very appealing to a man who likes to live well and whose financial situation is currently very rocky."

"So Garretson definitely has a motive," observed Mark.

"What about means?" asked Jesse. "Does he have the medical knowledge necessary to plan something like that? And how would he get the potassium?"

"We haven't been able to find any history of medical training," Steve admitted. "But we did find out that he's a member of a gun club and is an excellent marksman."

"So he could have been the shooter on the beach," Jesse concluded.

"And he could have had help with the potassium," Mark added, filling them in on his conversation that morning with Caitlyn.

"That fits with what I've found out," said Amanda. "It seems there is a slight discrepancy in the inventory of potassium in the pharmacy. And while it would be hard for a layman to take something from there, it wouldn't be anywhere near as difficult for a staff member. And Caitlyn Rogers' name appears on the sign-out sheet for people who have picked things up from the pharmacy in the last week."

"So they could be in it together," Steve theorized. "The background check didn't turn up anything interesting on her. She recently graduated from nursing school, no major debts, no sign of anything linking her to either Garretson or Camille Gallegher. Do you know of anything that links them together?"

"Not officially," Mark admitted. "But now that we know what to look for…"

"We can go look for it!" enthused Jesse. "I did pick up some scuttlebutt that Caitlyn was heavily involved with somebody, but nobody seemed to know who it was."

"And we still have no proof that there was any murder in the first place," Steve reminded them with a touch of frustration. "I couldn't get Judge Egan to order an autopsy based on 'pure supposition'."

"Well then, we'll just have to get the family's permission," Mark replied.

"But if Garretson is her next of kin," protested Amanda, "and he's somehow involved in the murder, why would he agree to an autopsy?"

"Maybe he'll be afraid it'll look bad if he doesn't," Jesse suggested.

"I doubt it. All he has to do is refuse to authorize the autopsy; then we have no evidence, and he gets clean away," Steve reminded him.

"Not necessarily," Mark mused thoughtfully. He looked up to see the three others watching him expectantly. "Maybe if we let him know that we're planning to do an autopsy, it'll shake things up a bit. Unless I miss my guess, Caitlyn Rogers is already feeling the pressure. Maybe we can rattle them into making a mistake."

"Yeah, and maybe we'll just push him into trying harder to kill you," Steve objected. "I'm not letting you hang yourself out as bait this time, Dad. They've come too close to killing you already. In fact, I want this Caitlyn Rogers kept far away from you; the last thing we need is to have one of the murder suspects in charge of your nursing care."

"I don't think Caitlyn had anything to do with the attempts on me," Mark replied. "She was terrible at hiding her reaction to my questions about Mrs. Gallegher, but she seemed genuinely concerned and natural with me before that, not self-conscious about it at all."

"Even if it was Garretson who tried to kill you," Steve protested, "she'd have to know about it."

"You'd think so," Mark agreed, "but somehow I don't think she does." He shook his head. "Well, whether she does or not, I suspect she may be the weak link. If we can put enough pressure on her, she might give the whole show away."

"Well, if we reassign her to another ward so that she's not your nurse anymore," said Jesse, "that should let her know that we're suspicious of her."

"Fine. Just don't let her anywhere near my father," declared Steve. "Or Garretson either."

"Actually," said Mark, "letting them know that we're suspicious is probably the best safeguard I could have." 

"How do you figure that?" his son asked skeptically.

"The reason they've presumably been trying to kill me," Mark explained reasonably, "is to keep anyone from looking too closely into Camille Gallegher's death. Once we're already suspicious, killing me no longer serves any purpose. In fact, Garretson's probably felt perfectly safe trying to kill me up 'til now precisely because we had no reason in the world to suspect him. Once he knows that we suspect he killed his aunt, he knows he'll be one of the first suspects if anything happens to me."

"That makes sense," concurred Jesse.

"Maybe," Steve replied. "But I'm still not taking any chances. I want Caitlyn Rogers reassigned, and I'm making it perfectly clear to the guards that neither she nor Michael Garretson is to get near you."

"Are you going to put a guard on me when I go home, too?" Mark asked, a hint of affectionate exasperation in his tone. Seeing Steve's questioning look, he continued, "My kidney functions are back to normal. Jesse's releasing me in the morning."

Seeing his friend flash an accusing glare at him, Jesse exclaimed, "Hey, I can't help it if he got better already! That's what we're supposed to do here in the hospital."

"You could at least have told me," Steve grumbled, as he considered the increased difficulty of ensuring his father's safety once he was back home. 

"Steve…" started his father.

"I know, Dad," he sighed. "It's just that it's a lot easier to keep you under wraps here than at the beach house."

"I'll be fine," Mark assured him. "Like I said, once they realize that we're already looking into Mrs. Gallegher's case, they have no reason to kill me." He met his son's eyes, his own filled with sympathetic understanding. Mark was well acquainted with the surge of protectiveness that his son was currently experiencing; he had battled with it himself after Steve's near brushes with death. He also recognized that, after two such close calls in rapid succession, Steve was finding it hard to accept that merely advertising their suspicions would be enough to remove the danger of further attacks. 

"Let's hope they see the position the same way," Steve rejoined. "In any event, it can't hurt to let them know as soon as possible that we're investigating Mrs. Gallegher's death."

"I can call Garretson and ask him to come in and talk to me about authorizing the autopsy," Mark suggested.

"I'd rather you let me call him," Steve replied. "If the whole idea is to let him know we're suspicious, I think a call from the police is the best way to make that point quite clear."

"We don't want to let him know we suspect murder right away," Mark argued, "or he'll definitely refuse permission for the autopsy. If we make it sound like a hospital formality since there was no doctor in attendance at the time of death, then he might be less likely to object in order to avoid looking suspicious."

"But then they'll still have a reason to try to kill you before you order the autopsy," objected Steve.

"I'll make it clear that this is standard hospital procedure," Mark explained. "Killing me won't change the need for the autopsy."

Seeing that Steve remained unconvinced, Jesse volunteered, "How about if I call him and make the request. That way, it'll be clear that the request comes from the hospital and not just from Mark."

"That makes sense," Mark approved, looking at Steve for his reaction. 

"I guess," the detective concurred reluctantly, as he failed to find any major flaws in the plan. "Thanks, Jess."

"No problem." Jesse grinned at him engagingly. "See, it's handy to have someone around who doesn't have that fatal reputation!"

"What you have is a fatal mouth," retorted Steve, irritated by the phrase that reminded him all too clearly of the murderer's willingness to kill at the first hint of a threat. The look of patient indulgence his father and friend cast him did little to improve his frame of mind.

Across town, in Caitlyn Roger's apartment, Caitlyn and Michael Garretson were also discussing Camille Gallegher's death and possible eventualities surrounding it. Caitlyn had poured forth her concerns about the questions Mark had asked, never noticing, in her distress, the shocked surprise that Garretson exhibited at the first indication that she had talked to Mark at all.

"And I heard one of the residents say that they'll have to get Dr. Sloan to sign the death certificate since he's the head of Internal Medicine, and he's bound to notice that we removed the lab report." Caitlyn ended her report of the day's events on a distinct note of panic.

"Hey, I'm sure it's not the first time a lab report went astray," Garretson soothed. "There's no reason that should cause anybody to assume there's a problem."

"No, but Dr. Sloan's bound to want to know the results, since he's the one who ordered the tests. And when he sees the elevated potassium levels, I know he'll want to look into it."

"Why should he care now?" Garretson asked. "She's dead. Besides, what can he do? I've already requested that they send the body to the mortuary for burial."

"They could order an autopsy before they send it," Caitlyn responded. "And then they'll know that she was killed by an overdose of potassium."

Garretson frowned thoughtfully as he considered that possibility. "You'd think he'd have more important things to deal with right now than one old woman's blood work," he muttered in aggravation. "How the hell does he keep surviving, anyway?"

Caitlyn stared at him with wide eyes. "What do you mean – " she asked nervously, "'keep surviving'?"

Realizing his slip, Garretson set about allaying her fears. "It's just that, well, terrible as it sounds, there's no denying that it would have been convenient if he'd succumbed to one of the attempts to kill him." He smiled at her, the charmingly rueful smile that she found so captivating. "I mean, it does seem odd that he's managed to survive two attacks on his life."

A slight frown of concentration creased Caitlyn's brow as she regarded her lover. "How did you know there had been two attacks?" she asked.

Garretson's smile slipped a bit, but he maintained his composure. "You mentioned it when you called me earlier," he replied. Seeing hesitation still in her face, he added easily, "You were so upset, you probably don't even remember everything you said." 

An unwelcome tendril of suspicion snaked itself around the edges of Caitlyn's consciousness, but, gazing into the smiling, confident face of her lover, she shoved it into the recesses of her mind.

Garretson slid an arm around her, his manner a soothing blend of affection and concern. "This has been very stressful for you, darling, I know," he murmured. "Just try to relax and finish your dinner, and don't worry so much. We'll work everything out; it'll be fine, you'll see."

Succumbing once again to the almost hypnotic assurances, Caitlyn did as he bade her, relaxing into the sense of security that his presence engendered in her. 

"You know, what you need is a glass of wine to help you relax," Garretson suggested. "How about I get a bottle and pour us some?"

"I'll get it," Caitlyn volunteered, starting to rise from her chair. Her companion placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. 

"No, you just sit and unwind," he said. "I'll get it." As she subsided back into her seat, Garretson moved to the kitchen and retrieved a bottle of wine from the refrigerator. He mentally reviewed the situation as he opened the bottle and gathered a pair of glasses. It was perfectly obvious to him that his accomplice was falling apart. Nor had it escaped his attention that his own slight slip of the tongue had awoken a spark of suspicion in her mind. He knew perfectly well that Caitlyn was not really a murderer at heart; he had been able to engage her cooperation in his plan to dispense with his aunt by persuading her that she was merely helping to release an old, sick woman from a pain-plagued, miserable existence. He had no doubt that he would never be able to convince her to view the cold-blooded murder of Dr. Sloan with equanimity. 

With cold calculation, he realized that keeping her around now would only prove to be a liability, since she was unlikely to be able to maintain her composure once an investigation was opened into his aunt's death. On the other hand, he thought, she might yet come in handy in a different role. Thinking quickly, he grabbed a tray, placed two glasses on it, and pulled from his pocket the small bottle of pills that he had placed there after receiving her distraught phone call earlier. Breaking a few of the capsules open, he dumped their contents into one of the glasses, filled both glasses with the wine, then carried the tray with the bottle and glasses back into the dining area. 

"Here you are, darling," he said, placing one of the glasses in front of her with a smile, "this should help you relax." Raising his own glass in a silent toast, he watched as she sipped her wine, waiting patiently for the drug to take effect. 


	12. Chapter 12

****

Chapter 12

Mark and Jesse had finished the breakfast the younger doctor had brought in by the time Steve arrived the next morning.

"You're too late," Jesse informed his friend. "We ate all the donuts."

Steve cast him a somewhat distracted withering glance, but failed to respond to the teasing remark. Instead, he looked at his father.

"You won't have to worry about reassigning Caitlyn Rogers," he announced. "She was found dead in her apartment this morning."

"Murdered?" asked Jesse, exchanging surprised glances with Mark.

"Apparently suicide," Steve responded. "There were no signs of violence, and an unlabelled bottle of pills was found on the table near the couch where she was lying. Amanda's checking out the pills and the blood work now."

Jesse looked from one Sloan to the other. "You think she got scared that we were going to find out about her involvement in Mrs. Gallegher's death and decided to kill herself?"

"It's certainly a possibility," Steve replied.

"Did she leave a note?" Mark asked.

"Not that we've found. Of course, not all suicides do."

Mark nodded thoughtfully, but didn't respond.

"So now what happens?" Jesse asked. 

"I've been to see Michael Garretson," Steve responded. "We had to tell him that we'd be doing an autopsy on his aunt since there seemed to be some suspicion that Caitlyn's death was connected to hers."

"What did he say?" asked Mark with interest.

"He claimed to be shocked at first, of course. But then he claimed that she had hinted at some such thing, but he hadn't understood what she was saying."

"Did he admit that they had a relationship?" Mark queried.

"Not exactly. He said that they had gotten 'friendly' during his visits to his aunt, that they'd met a couple of times for coffee, but nothing further than that. Except that Caitlyn apparently got the wrong message." He paused to pick up a remaining slice of toast, and Mark, who had been listening with bright-eyed alertness, drew the logical conclusion.

"So he's claiming that she thought they were involved," he interjected. "And what – she killed Mrs. Gallegher to benefit him?"

Steve met his father's skeptical glance with a slight smile of approval. "Basically," he confirmed. "Of course, he didn't know anything about that. But last night, she went to see him and implied that now that his aunt was dead they could have a good life together. He says he didn't understand what she meant by that, but he had to disabuse her of her obvious misinterpretation of his intentions. Whereupon, she became incredibly distraught and started ranting all sorts of things that he didn't really pay enough attention to."

"Like how she killed his aunt?" asked Jesse.

"Nothing quite so obvious," Steve replied. "More the 'I did it all for you' sort of thing. Of course, he had no idea what she was referring to at the time…"  


"But now he's sure that she meant that she had killed his aunt," finished Mark. "Did he say why she should have done such a thing?"

"He 'couldn't imagine'." Steve's tone clearly indicated his opinion of Garretson's story. "In fact, he still can't believe that it could be true, and he's sure we'll find that there was nothing untoward in his aunt's death. Oh, he was very good," the detective admitted. "Just the right amount of shock, tinged with remorse at the thought that she might have committed suicide because of his rejection and he should have been clearer up front or more tactful in brushing her off. It was very convincing."

"But it didn't convince you." There was affectionate pride in Mark's eyes as he surveyed his son. 

"Maybe I've been hanging around you too long," was the sardonic response. "I haven't got a single thing to point to to justify my suspicions, no concrete evidence that everything wasn't just the way he says. And the DA is going to be perfectly happy with the case against Caitlyn Rogers."

"Well, we'll just have to see what we can turn up," Mark declared.

"So far, we've turned up more evidence to support the idea of suicide," announced a voice from the door, as Amanda entered the room. Seeing she had everybody's attention, she continued. "The pills they found in her apartment were Pentobarbital. And while I haven't done a complete autopsy yet, I did run a quick blood test, and there was enough barbiturate in her blood to kill her."

"So, it looks like she may have been the one who drugged your dinner," Jesse observed.

"What about the shooting?" Mark protested. "I can't see her as the shooter on the beach."

"She could have hired someone to do that," Steve suggested.

"Maybe." Mark clearly wasn't convinced. 

"In any event, the next step is to get the autopsy on Camille Gallegher," Steve stated. "Until we find out for sure if she was given an overdose of potassium or whatever, we have no real case."

"I can get started on that right away," Amanda said. "I should be able to give you a preliminary finding this morning."

"Thanks, Amanda," Steve said. Redirecting his thoughts from the case for the moment, he turned to his father. 

"So what's the story with you, Dad?" he asked. "When are you being released?"

"I want to run one more scan before we send you home," interjected Jesse before Mark could reply. "I just want to be sure all the swelling's gone before we let you out."

"That shouldn't take very long," Mark said. "I should be ready to leave in about an hour or so." He cast a questioning look at his son. "If you need to get back to the station or have someplace you need to be, I'm sure I can get someone to give me a lift back home," he suggested.

"I don't know, Dad," Steve hedged. "I think it would be safer if I took you home. We're short staffed right now, and the Captain doesn't think we can spare a man to keep on you now that it looks like Caitlyn was the one responsible for all this."

"Steve, he's right, you know," Mark replied patiently. "Even if Garretson is the one who's really responsible for all this, the last thing he'd want to do now is try another attack on me. He's set it up beautifully to have Caitlyn take the rap for the whole thing; if he tries another attempt on me, he blows the whole setup. Whatever else he might be, he's obviously not stupid. I'll be perfectly safe from him."

Unable to refute the logic of that argument, Steve reluctantly gave in. There were a number of things he had to do to try to clear up this case; the sooner he got to them, the sooner he could be sure of putting his father's would-be murderer behind bars. Or, in the event that Caitlyn did turn out to be the sole perpetrator of the recent attacks, confirming that the murderer was no longer in a position to harm Mark. 

With Steve's and Amanda's departures to carry on the investigation, Jesse set about arranging a final MRI for Mark. By the time they succeeded in getting the radiology department to fit Mark in, and he had been duly scanned and returned to his room, it was approaching lunch time, and Jesse volunteered to drive him home himself if Mark wouldn't mind waiting a bit longer. Mark readily agreed to this, and spent the intervening time getting himself dressed and packing up his few things, and then wandered down to the Pathology Lab to see how Amanda was getting along with the autopsy.

He arrived at the Path Lab to find that Amanda was just finishing her preliminary report. Camille Gallegher had indeed been given an overdose of potassium, resulting in a heart blockage that had led to her death. The two doctors spent some time reviewing the patient chart and found that the pattern of heart rate decline was consistent with the theory that the potassium had been delivered when the IV bags had been changed during Caitlyn's shifts. It seemed extremely probable that Caitlyn had been the one to administer the fatal doses.

Jesse and Mark were discussing the pathology findings as they headed for the exit. As luck would have it, they encountered Michael Garretson in the lobby. 

"Mr. Garretson!" Mark called, drawing the man's attention. "We meet again."

"Dr. Sloan." Garretson greeted Mark with apparent friendliness. "It's nice to see that you've recovered."

"I was sorry to hear about Caitlyn Rogers," Mark said sympathetically. "I understand that you and she had become good friends." As Garretson's face took on an appropriately grave expression, Mark continued smoothly, "It must have been quite a shock to hear that she was responsible for your aunt's death."

"You know, I'm still having a hard time coping with that," Garretson said with a nice blend of sorrow and bewilderment. "She seemed like such a nice person – and then to find out that she was… well, _obsessed_ with the idea that we had a romantic relationship! And that she apparently poisoned my poor aunt with the idea of us inheriting her money… I find that I can't help blaming myself for not noticing her delusions sooner."

"She certainly had us all fooled," Mark responded. "None of us ever picked up on any delusional behavior in her either." Garretson shot him a sharp glance, but merely shook his head sadly.

"I guess no one knew her as well as they thought they did," he said. "Some people are very good at hiding their problems until one day they just seem to crack."

"True," Mark replied with a sigh. "A tragic situation." Shaking off the apparently melancholy reflections, he flashed a small, rueful smile at the other man. "Well, I really shouldn't hold you up," he said. "I'm sure you have many things to do."

"There do seem to be a number of loose ends that need to be dealt with," affirmed Garretson. "Apparently there's more paperwork to go over regarding Aunt Camille's autopsy, and the police have been around asking questions. I'll just be glad when they get everything officially settled."

"I'm sure you will," agreed Mark sympathetically. 

Garretson made a polite acknowledgement and strode off down the hall, leaving Mark and Jesse to continue towards the parking lot. As they drove to the beach house, they discussed Garretson's story, both of them convinced that the man was guilty, but unable to find any obvious holes in his story. 

Once Jesse had dropped him off, Mark wandered into the kitchen, looking for something to eat, as he continued to ponder Garretson's story in the hopes of finding a weakness they could exploit. He reflected ruefully that he wasn't having much success with either search; there was a distinct paucity of edibles available. Sniffing the somewhat malodorous container of milk in the refrigerator and surveying the empty shelves, he came to the inescapable conclusion that he was obviously overdue for a run to the grocery store. Resigning himself to the need to venture out in order to eat, it occurred to him that, as long as he was going out anyway, he might profitably pay a visit to Caitlyn Rogers' apartment and see if there was anything there that might spark an inspiration about the case. Feeling decidedly happier now that he had a more active role he could assume in the investigation, he grabbed his car keys and headed for the police station, intending to see if Steve wanted to accompany him.

Unfortunately, Steve was not at the precinct when Mark arrived. Undeterred, Mark went to see Captain Newman to request access to Caitlyn's apartment. Since the crime scene unit had finished their investigation and departed, he needed to get the key to get in. Captain Newman had long ago recognized the value of Mark's occasionally unorthodox, but usually effective, assistance with various investigations, and he made no objection to the doctor visiting the scene of the apparent suicide. He gave Mark the appropriate authorization to retrieve the key and promised to tell Steve when he returned that his father had gone to the apartment. 

The apartment complex where Caitlyn Rogers had lived was a once-run-down building now in the process of being renovated as part of the regentrification wave that periodically spread out around Los Angeles. Stepping around the construction work surrounding the main entrance, Mark observed the 'out of order' sign on the elevator with rueful resignation. Sighing, he trudged up the stairway to the tenth floor, reflecting wryly, as he paused at the top to catch his breath, that this was not exactly following the standard medical injunction to 'take it easy' when first released from the hospital. All things considered, he decided that it was probably just as well Steve hadn't come with him; his son would certainly have protested such an exertion.

Recovering his breath and his usual insouciance, Mark let himself in to Caitlyn's apartment and began to look around. He had taken the time to review the crime scene photos, and he knew that the police had found the table set for one and Caitlyn's body peacefully stretched out on the couch as if she had simply lain down to sleep. He poked around the living/dining area, and then wandered into the kitchen, searching for any indication that a second person might have been present. 

It was obvious that Garretson, if he had indeed been there, had done a thorough job of cleaning and putting away any dishes, glasses, or utensils. Remembering that the Pentobarbital had been found in Caitlyn's wine glass, Mark looked around for a bottle of wine. There was no empty bottle in the recycling bin or the garbage, although he did find the foil from the neck of a bottle of wine in the trash under the sink. Reflecting that the presence of the foil seemed to indicate the opening of a new bottle, Mark went to the refrigerator and peered inside, triumphantly emerging with a partially empty bottle of inexpensive Riesling. He was considering the fact that the bottle was emptier than one would expect if Caitlyn had opened a new bottle that night for just herself, when he heard footsteps approaching through the next room.

"Steve?" he called out, assuming that his son had come to meet him. Failing to get an answer, he moved to peer into the living area, and stopped short as he found himself confronting Michael Garretson.

"Sorry, Doctor," Garretson said calmly. "But I'm afraid it's just me."

"What are you doing here?" Mark asked in surprise. 

"Taking care of loose ends," was the reply. "You know, Doctor," he said, moving closer to Mark, "you really are a persistent one, aren't you?"

"Well, I just like to check things out," Mark said deprecatingly.

"You know what they say – curiosity killed the cat. And I'm afraid," Garretson added, suddenly pulling a gun, "that it's going to have the same effect on you."

Mark's eyes widened in surprise at the threat. "Why would you want to kill me?" he queried, keeping his tone reasonable. "You've set up the perfect scenario: Caitlyn takes the fall for both murdering your aunt and the attempts on me. If you kill me now, you'll only open yourself up for suspicion."

"That would be true," agreed Garretson, "if you weren't the stubborn man I can see you are. I could tell when I talked with you this morning that you weren't going to leave this alone." As he spoke, he advanced toward Mark, maneuvering him further into the living room. "You have a quite a reputation for pushing at things, Doctor," he continued, "and I can see that it's well deserved. But I have no intention of letting you push at this until something unravels."

"But murdering me will only unravel it anyway," Mark protested.

"Ah, but I'm not going to 'murder' you," Garretson explained. "You're going to have a little 'accident'. There'll be nothing to connect me to your death, and the case will remain closed, with poor, dear Caitlyn having murdered my aunt in a deluded attempt to create a life with me and attempted to kill you when she thought you were going to find out about it."

"Caitlyn didn't really have anything to do with the attempts on me, did she?" Mark asked, trying to play for time, as he allowed himself to be backed across the room. "She didn't even know anything about it. You were the one who shot at me on the beach and put the Pentobarbital in my dinner."

  
Garretson nodded. "You seem to be remarkably hard to kill, Doctor. But I think I'll succeed this time."

"Like you succeeded with Caitlyn," Mark prodded, probing for confirmation that the nurse had been murdered. "Why did you kill her? We didn't have anywhere near enough evidence to get a court order for an autopsy. All you had to do was refuse to sign the authorization for it, and there would have been nothing we could have done about it."

"That was your fault, too," replied Garretson. "You had Caitlyn so flustered she was falling apart. I couldn't take the chance that she'd give the show away. Besides, this way she was even more helpful; she takes the rap, and I'm in the clear."

"A shooting isn't exactly going to be written off as an accidental death," Mark pointed out. 

"But then, I'm not planning on shooting you. Unless, of course, you leave me no choice." They had arrived at the far end of the room, next to the sliding glass door that led out onto a small balcony facing the back of the apartment complex. "Open the door, Doctor," Garretson ordered.

Realizing that he was rapidly running out of time, Mark searched frantically for some way to further delay things, hoping desperately that Steve would come by looking for him. Faced with the unwavering gun and the unrelenting approach of his would-be assassin, he could find no alternative but to do as he was told. Reluctantly, he slid open the door, but hesitated inside.

"You see," Garretson continued as he firmly gestured him forward, "the balconies on these apartments are very old and have been deteriorating for years. Caitlyn's been complaining to the management for some time now that the railing here is literally falling apart and is very unsafe. In fact, all someone would have to do is lean against it, and the results would be very tragic." He released the safety on the gun, moving to stand directly behind Mark. "Step outside, please, Doctor."

Slowly, Mark turned and stepped onto the balcony. Prodded forward by the gun that was now firmly placed against his back, he took a couple of steps, then stopped, a mere foot or so from the edge. 

"I'm not going any farther," he declared, his face pale, but determined. "I'm not going to make it that easy for you. If you're going to kill me, you're going to have to make it an obvious murder."

"Oh, I don't think so," Garretson replied, and in a sudden, swift motion, brought the gun up to strike the doctor on the side of the head. Caught by surprise, Mark tried to pull away, but was unable to completely avoid the blow. Stunned, but not completely unconscious, he staggered, incapable of resisting as he felt his attacker grab him and propel him forward. He vaguely heard a voice cry out as a sharp shove sent him crashing forcefully into the railing. The rusted iron gave way under the impact of his weight, and, with the sound of a shout ringing in his ears, he plunged over the edge of the 10-story drop.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 

Steve and Cheryl pulled out of the last gas station near Caitlyn Rogers' apartment building, having drawn a blank in their quest to see if they could get any indication that Michael Garretson had been in the neighborhood around the time the nurse had died. They had known that it was a long shot, but Steve was determined to pursue any possibility, however faint, that might lead to evidence that would enable him to arrest the man who he was sure had tried to murder his father.

The drive back to the police station took them past Caitlyn's apartment complex, and they briefly discussed whether it would be useful to try interviewing a few more of her neighbors to see if anyone remembered Garretson either from that evening or as a regular visitor. As they approached the parking lot, Cheryl suddenly spotted a familiar convertible.

"Isn't that your dad's car?" she asked, pointing out the vehicle.

Glancing over, Steve experienced a flash of exasperation. "It is," he confirmed grimly. "And he's supposed to be home resting." He pulled his car into a spot nearby, reflecting that he was going to have to have a firm talk with his father about his lack of care for his own physical condition or safety. 

Noting the suggestion of irritation in his tone, Cheryl grinned at him. "Sounds a lot like his son," she teased.

A reluctant grin spread across Steve's face. "I guess we do have a bit in common," he admitted, his irritation evaporating as he remembered the times he had dismayed his father by what Mark considered to be a too-precipitate return to normal activity. 

As they entered the building, Steve suggested that Cheryl go ahead and talk to some of the neighbors while he checked on Mark in Caitlyn's apartment. He was not surprised to find the door to the apartment unlocked, and he let himself in, calling out for his father. He failed to get any response, but, as he moved further into the dwelling, he heard an indeterminate noise from the balcony. He headed in that direction, arriving at the door just in time to see Garretson manhandling his father toward the edge of the balcony.   
  
"**_Freeze!_**" he shouted, instinctively launching himself in a desperate tackle, just as Garretson shoved Mark against the railing. In the moment it took him to cover the distance between the door and the killer, he heard the sickening crash of the railing give way, and saw the gun that Garretson whirled to fire at him. He felt a searing pain scorch his side as he landed heavily on his assailant, carrying them both to the ground. He scarcely noticed the pain of the wound through the haze of white-hot fury and hatred that engulfed him as he fought with his father's murderer. The struggle was violent, but brief; it was only a few moments before Steve landed a vicious blow across Garretson's jaw that knocked him cold. 

As he rolled the killer over, Cheryl burst out onto the balcony, having been drawn by the sound of the shot. As she leaned down to cuff the unconscious man, Steve lurched to the edge of the balcony, anguished dread almost choking him as he leaned over, fully expecting to see his father's broken body sprawled lifelessly on the ground below. 

The sight that met his eyes instead galvanized him into instant action. The railing hung from the balcony, still tenuously attached by a single bar supporting it. And Mark hung grimly clinging to the dangling end, his white, strained face upraised to meet his son's.

"_Dad!_" Steve cried, flinging himself down on his stomach to reach over the edge for his father. "Hang on!" Finding that Mark was out of reach, he called over his shoulder to his partner for help. Quickly securing Garretson to the side railing of the balcony, Cheryl moved swiftly to Steve's side.

"Grab on to me," Steve ordered. "I need to get closer." He looked back down at where Mark dangled precariously about a foot below his outstretched hands, his heart pounding as he heard the creaking strain of the fatigued metal railing that could snap at any moment, sending his father plummeting to certain death. The instant he felt Cheryl's hands grip his belt, he slithered forward to lean further over the edge, ignoring the burning pain that flamed along his torso as he stretched his injured side, extending his arms until they felt as if they would dislocate from his shoulders.

Mark watched as his son struggled to reach him, desperately trying to maintain his grip even as his tortured muscles burned in protest of the unaccustomed strain. Through the midst of his undeniable fear and pain ran a strong flare of relief that was totally independent of his own chance for rescue. As he had pitched over the edge of the railing, frantically flailing for something to grab onto, Mark had heard his son's voice and the sharp crack of the gun shot. He had managed to grasp a piece of protruding metal as he fell, and as he dangled helplessly from the twisted railing, catching only snatches of sound from above, the terror that Garretson had killed Steve had overridden even his fear for himself. The intense relief of seeing Steve's face appear above him, combined with the latest blow to his head and the dizzying plunge into space, unleashed a wave of weakness that was threatening to erode his grip on consciousness. He focussed determinedly on his son's voice, willing himself not to let go before Steve could reach him, knowing that failure would mean not only death for himself, but devastation for his son.

As Steve strained to reach his father, he sensed Mark's growing weakness, and he had to fight the urge to lunge downward in a desperate attempt to quickly grab him, knowing that such a move might well result in sending them both over the edge. He inched himself closer with painful caution, uttering verbal encouragements all the while in an attempt to keep his father focussed.

"Hang on, Dad … I'm almost there," he managed to utter, his teeth gritted with exertion. "Just a bit more…. Stay with me…"

Time seemed to hang suspended as Steve stretched those last few centimeters to finally touch his father's hands. He quickly slid his hands down towards Mark's wrists.

"Okay, Dad, now grab my wrists," he directed. As Mark transferred first one, then the other hand from the railing to his son's wrist, there came a terrifying instant when his grasp slipped and his full weight jerked suddenly against Steve as he dangled from one arm. Steve felt the excruciating jolt to his shoulder as he frantically clamped both hands around his father's wrist, the muscles in his arms cracking with the effort to maintain his grip, terrified that his father's life might literally slip through his grasp. Using every ounce of energy provided by the panic-induced burst of adrenaline, Mark managed to bring his other arm back up, and his son released one hand to swiftly snatch at it, latching onto the wrist with a vise-like grip of desperation. The sweat poured down Steve's face as he then began the laborious process of working himself back onto the balcony, with Cheryl helping as much as she could. Once he was far enough back to be in no danger of sliding over the edge, Cheryl abandoned her position as anchor and came forward to kneel beside him, reaching down to grab Mark. Together they hauled the doctor up to safety, where father and son collapsed in an exhausted heap, Steve's arm still draped protectively around his father as if he were afraid that Mark might yet slip through his fingers to a fatal fall.

Cheryl looked down at the duo, registering for the first time the blood spreading across Steve's shirt and Mark's semi-conscious state, and whipped out her cell phone to call for an ambulance. Roused by the request, Steve scrutinized his father in concern, gently shifting him so that he could see Mark's face. 

"Are you alright, Dad?" he asked, mentally berating the lameness of the question, but too spent to formulate a more articulate expression of his concern.

Mark's eyes blinked open, and he managed to muster a slight smile in response to his son's worried gaze. He gave a reassuring nod as he recovered his breath, then said with a touch of wry humor, as he raised an arm that trembled with muscle fatigue, "I think I need to start doing some weight lifting." 

Steve smiled down at him in relief. "Maybe you could start working out with me," he suggested, his tone matching the lightness of his father's.

Pulling himself together, Mark straightened into a sitting position, noticing as he did so the involuntary grimace Steve gave as he shifted his own position in response. Automatically raking an appraising glance over his son, the sight of the blood-soaked shirt caused an immediate sharpening of his alertness and a resurgence of anxiety.

"You're hurt!" he exclaimed, pulling back so he could better view the extent of the damage. 

"I'm alright, Dad," Steve assured him. "It's just a graze." He allowed Mark to inspect the wound for himself, recognizing his father's need to physically verify his son's safety through sight and touch. He was experiencing much the same sensation himself with regard to his father.

"I've got an ambulance on the way," Cheryl informed them, fully expecting a protest from both prospective patients. To her surprise, it failed to materialize.

"Good, we can get you checked out," Steve said to his father at the same moment as Mark proclaimed, "We'll get that wound taken care of right away."

Cheryl stifled a laugh as father and son exchanged startled glances.

"Dad, I don't need an ambulance," protested Steve. "This is nothing. You probably have another concussion."

"You're the one who was shot," Mark insisted. "There's nothing wrong with me that some aspirin won't cure."

"Look, you can argue about who the ambulance is really for all the way to the hospital," Cheryl declared firmly, "but you are both going in it." 

The dispute came to an abrupt halt as both men turned to look at her, momentarily disconcerted. Steve suddenly realized that he had all intentions of accompanying his father in the ambulance anyway, and, glancing at Mark, was met with a slightly rueful smile that acknowledged the same intention.

"Sounds like a plan to me," Mark conceded.

"Well, we might as well get off this damn balcony while we wait," Steve responded, starting to get to his feet. 

Mark immediately moved to help him, swaying slightly as the dizziness returned, and Cheryl had to stifle another laugh as the two men tried to help each other rise. She lent a hand to help get them both upright, then turned back to unfasten their captive from the railing, shaking her head in affectionate amusement as she watched father and son head back into the apartment together. It might not be easily apparent who was physically supporting whom at the moment, but there was never any doubt that the emotional support, as always, was completely mutual. 

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - _(A.N.: not quite done yet – one more chapter to come!) - - - - - - - - - _- - - - -


	14. Chapter 14

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Chapter 14

Steve entered the beach house the following afternoon, and headed into the study looking for his father. Mark wasn't there, but as Steve walked further into the room, he was able to see out to the deck where Mark, Jesse, and Amanda were gathered around the table talking.

Steve paused for a moment, appreciating the familiar sight, unable to refrain from contrasting the current scene with the one he had come home to just a few days earlier. The floor was still bare where the blood-soaked area rug had lain, and there was a manufacturer's sticker on the glass doors that bespoke their newness, but otherwise the room was restored to its usual homey, comfortable atmosphere – a restoration that was largely due, Steve knew, to the fact that his father was once again in residence. 

As he moved closer to the sliding doors, he had a clear view of his dad, whose chair was at an angle that presented a partial profile to the watcher in the room. Mark looked perfectly relaxed and at ease, chatting casually with his friends. The only sign of his recent adventures was the fishing hat that he was wearing to cover the area of his head that they had had to shave to remove Garretson's bullet. Jesse had had a grand time teasing Mark about his 'new hairstyle' when he had removed the bandage the day before, and Mark had joined in the humor with his characteristic willingness to poke fun at himself, proposing a variety of outlandish head coverings that he could use to conceal the unevenness as his hair grew back. Steve had no doubt that his father would next appear at the hospital in some outrageous head gear. But to Steve, the sight of that fishing hat served as a visual reminder of just how close he had come to losing his dad. His heart seemed to contort in response to the surge of affection laced with the pain of potential loss that twisted through it. 

A sudden gust of wind caught the rim of Mark's hat, lifting it off his head, causing him to lunge awkwardly to grab it before it blew away. The movement brought him around to face the house, and he caught sight of his son in the doorway. Recovering himself and resettling the hat, he smiled welcomingly as Steve stepped outside.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Pretty much as we expected," Steve replied. "The DA is going to charge Garretson with the murder of Caitlyn Rogers and your attempted murder."

"What about Camille Gallegher?" Jesse queried, although they were all pretty sure they knew the answer. Steve confirmed their supposition.

"He's not going to push on that one. The evidence all points to the fact that Caitlyn was the one who actually got the potassium and administered it; we don't have anything that would prove that it was Garretson who put her up to it."

Mark nodded, disappointed but not surprised. "I should have tried to get him to admit to that too," he said regretfully.

Steve cast him a distinctly ascerbic look. "I'd just as soon you hadn't had any conversation with him at all," he responded. "But at least your testimony that he admitted murdering Caitlyn will go a long way to enabling us to get a conviction on that."

"The fact that you and Cheryl turned up a neighbor who saw him visit her several times will provide corroboration that their relationship was more than he implied," Mark said. "Otherwise, it would just be my word against his."

"There's the little detail of him trying to throw you off the balcony," Amanda said dryly. "I think that might color the jury's view of his story."

"Not to mention the first two times he tried to kill you," Jesse added. 

"Actually, he's probably still planning on trying to attribute those first two attempts to Caitlyn," Mark replied. "We don't have any concrete evidence yet to connect him to the shooting, and I'm sure his lawyer will point out that, as a nurse, Caitlyn was more likely to have access to the Pentobarbital. You know," he mused thoughtfully, "he really might have gotten away with it if he had just left it alone after Caitlyn's death."

"So why did he try to kill you again?" asked Amanda.

"Good question," commented Steve dryly. "I seem to remember you insisting that that was the last thing he'd want to do." 

"Apparently, when Jesse and I ran into him when we were leaving the hospital, he decided that I wasn't convinced by his performance," Mark explained, "and he was afraid that I might actually find something that would connect him to one of the murders. He knew better than to try another obvious murder attempt, but when I went to Caitlyn's apartment, he thought he saw the perfect opportunity to stage an 'accident'."

"So much for your certainty that you were 'perfectly safe' from him."

Mark cast his son a quick glance, recognizing the seriousness behind the slightly flip remark. "I underestimated him," he admitted in implicit apology. "He was incredibly quick, and completely ruthless, in identifying a potential threat and removing it before it had a chance to materialize. His original idea was to kill me before I had a chance to look too closely at his aunt's death, knowing that, if he succeeded, it would have been the perfect murder. No one would have any reason to even consider him as a possible suspect since no one would know there was any connection between us. And when I met him at the nurse's station the next morning, he was quick to try again before any connection could be made. Then, once we became suspicious about Camille Gallegher's death, and Caitlyn got flustered by my questions, he realized that he could get rid of her before she could give anything away and at the same time use her as the perfect scapegoat to divert suspicion from himself. It was his quickness and flexibility at taking advantage of opportunities as soon as they presented themselves that enabled him to get away with everything up to then. But he just couldn't leave it alone; when he saw me go to Caitlyn's apartment, he couldn't resist taking advantage of the opportunity presented by that damaged railing on the balcony."

"Well, it's a good thing Steve showed up when he did," Amanda declared, "or he just might have succeeded that time!" 

"Yeah, 'third time's the charm'!" corroborated Jesse with a grin.

"Yes, well, fortunately, as Garretson said himself, I'm not that easy to kill," Mark replied lightly, with a slightly uneasy glance at his son who was scowling unappreciatively at his friend. "In any event, it's all wrapped up now, and the DA should be able to see that Garretson is behind bars for a long time to come." 

Deciding that a change of topic was in order, he passed around the lemonade and started to question Jesse about the current status of hospital staff. Jesse obligingly followed the lead, assuring him that the worst of the 'flu epidemic seemed to be over and that many of the doctors who had been ill were returning to work. Judging by the somewhat sardonic gleam in Steve's blue eyes, Mark concluded that his less-than-subtle shift of the conversation had not gone unnoticed, but that his son was not inclined to pursue the matter.

Some time later, after Jesse and Amanda had left, the Sloans found themselves sitting alone on the deck in companionable silence, enjoying the rhythmic roll of the waves and the sparkle of the late afternoon sun on the water. They stayed that way for a while, relaxed in the warmth of the sun, until the first rumblings of hunger pangs reminded Mark of the dinner he had planned on making.

He repaired to the kitchen and busied himself with setting out the supplies that he had finally made it to the grocery store to buy. Steve joined him, accepting with unusual willingness the tasks of slicing and dicing as his father seasoned and cooked. Conversation was relaxed and sporadic, and Mark found the tranquil domesticity of the scene both amusing and soothing. It was rare that both Sloans had the time and inclination to indulge in such leisurely mealtime preparations; usually, even if Steve were around while Mark was fixing dinner, he was normally only too happy to leave the culinary chores to his father unless firmly roped in to assist. Mark duly noted the departure from the norm even as he enjoyed it.

Steve was, in fact, finding the unusual domesticity equally soothing. While this had not been the first time he had come close to losing his father, the sheer number of the attempts and the thinness of the margin by which they had failed had been particularly unnerving. As his hands performed the menial tasks, he found himself watching his father, noting with renewed appreciation the sparkle of humor and intelligence in those clear blue eyes, the still upright posture and limber movements that belied the signs of incipient age. The recent events had forced to the forefront of his consciousness the reminder that his father would not always be with him; he was determined to take advantage of the time they still had together.

As they ate and chatted in a rare evening of relaxed peace, Mark was aware of the fact that something was going on with his son. Beneath the obviously genuine contentment and enjoyment, there lurked a subtle atmosphere of what Mark could best classify as a sort of pensiveness. He refrained from commenting on it, knowing that, if it were important, Steve would talk about it when he was ready. Mark already had his suspicions as to the cause. There had been too many times when he had come heart-stoppingly close to losing his son not to understand that it took time to readjust after the resultant emotional upheaval. So, he bided his time and savored the opportunity to spend a quiet evening together unmarred by concerns with current cases or job pressures.

After dinner, Steve suggested a walk on the beach, and Mark readily agreed. As they descended onto the sand, Mark took a deep breath of the salt air, savoring the sights and sensations of the surroundings that he loved. On impulse, he decided to dispense with shoes and socks, and he rolled up his pants legs so he could walk along the water's edge, allowing the waves to lap up over his feet. Steve followed suit, and they splashed their way along the wet sand, their conversation turning to shared memories evoked by the familiar experience. 

At one point, Mark reached down to pick up a stone that he tossed out to skip across the water. Steve smiled as he watched.

"I remember you teaching me how to do that," he said reminiscently, bending down to locate a smooth stone for himself. "I thought I was never going to get it right."

Mark smiled back as his son sent his stone skipping expertly out across the surface of the ocean.

"You were a quick study, actually," he said. "You were always better than you thought you were."

"I wanted to be as good as you," Steve replied with a tolerant smile for the impatient child he had been.

"Wasn't long before you were," his father responded. "In fact, I think you were better."

"Why don't we see how we match up now?" Steve grinned. Mark regarded him with some suspicion.

"Have you been practicing lately?" he asked warily.

"Maybe," Steve teased evasively. "Want to find out?" 

Without waiting for a response, he picked up a stone and tossed it, counting the hops it made as it skimmed the surface of the water. "Your turn," he challenged his father. Smiling, Mark searched for a promising rock and flicked it out to follow his son's. It, too, bounced satisfactorily as it went. The contest continued for a few minutes, accompanied by a fair amount of laughter and splashing. In the end, they decided to call it a draw, and turned to head back for home.

As they walked, Steve found himself reflecting once again on how fortunate he felt to have such a father, grateful for the lifetime of memories and their continued closeness, thinking of the multitude of things they enjoyed doing together and the many things they had yet to do. He turned to his father.

"What do you say we take that trip to Canada you've always talked about?" he suggested casually. "Jesse's got me confined to desk duty for the next few days anyway, and I don't have any pressing cases going; I figure it's a good time to take some of the vacation time I've got accumulated." 

"A vacation sounds like a good idea," Mark replied, trying to hide his surprise. It wasn't that Steve never suggested vacations, but this was one of those ideas that they had always talked about as a vague type of 'some day' proposition. He waited, wondering if his son would elaborate.

Steve met his father's eyes, recognizing the unvoiced question there. He gave a slightly deprecating smile, knowing that his dad had undoubtedly picked up on the subtle differences in his mood and behavior and appreciating Mark's usual forbearance in not pushing for an explanation Steve hadn't been ready to give.

"I just thought we could use some time together, and this seemed like a good opportunity," he explained.

Mark looked back at him gravely. It wasn't hard for him to figure out the motivation behind his son's suggestion, to realize that the recent close brushes with death had brought an increased awareness of the uncertainties of the duration and quality of the time they had to share. He didn't need to have Steve spell it out to know that his son was feeling a desire to do some of the things they had long planned before it was too late. 

"It's been a rough few days," he concurred, his tone and expression reflecting sympathetic understanding.

The words resonated familiarly in Steve's mind, and he found himself remembering a time when the situation had been reversed, when the death of Steve's friend and fellow officer from an apparently stray bullet during a gun fight had sparked in Mark a heightened awareness of the constant threat that the same fate could just as suddenly claim his son. With a smile of considerable affection, he nodded, reaching out to briefly grip his father's arm.

"I'm just appreciating what I've got," he said, echoing Mark's words from that former time. The smile he received in return acknowledged the memory and reflected back the deep love that was such a vital force in their lives. Further words seemed unnecessary; the silent understanding that passed between them in that exchange of glances was no less complete for being verbally unspoken.

"You know what else I could appreciate right now?" Mark asked lightly after a moment, as he turned to resume their journey. "Some of that Moose Tracks ice cream I picked up when I was at the store."

"Moose Tracks?" Steve queried skeptically, falling naturally into step beside his father.

"You know," Mark elaborated, "the one with chocolate ice cream, peanut butter cup bits, banana, marshmallow, nuts…"

"And you say _I've_ got strange taste in food?!" interrupted his son with mock incredulity.

Mark flashed him his trademark grin of mischievous innocence, and the banter continued as they headed home, content with the moment and their prospects for the immediate future.

THE END

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Many, many thanks to all who have taken the time to review and email me and who have been so encouraging and supportive. It has certainly been both appreciated and motivating! Maybe postponing retirement wasn't such a bad idea after all!

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